

















Young puritans Series 


THE 

YOUNG PURITANS 


IN 

CAPTIVITY. 


BY 


MARY P. WELLS SMITH, 

W 


AUTHOR OF “THE YOUNG PURITANS OF OI.D HADLEY;” “ THE YOUNG PURITANS 


in king philip’s war;” “the jolly good times series,” etc. 


ILLUSTRATED BY JESSIE WILLCOX SMITH 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 

1899. 

V. • 






% 


V 


O 




44350 

Copyright, 1899, 

By Little, Brown, and Company. 


A 11 rights reserved. 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 



•ECOND COPY, 


Hnibcrsttg ^|rcss : 


John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 
























4 


tf]e JKemorg 

OF 

DR. JOHN FARWELL MOORS 

AND HIS WIFE 

EUNICE WELLS MOORS 

“ Read, sweet, how others strove, 

Till we are stouter; 

What they renounced, 

Till we are less afraid ; 

How many times they bore 
The faithful witness, 

Till we are helped, 

As if a kingdom cared ! ” 


Emily Dickinson 




























PREFACE. 



HIS book is so arranged as to be a complete 


A story in itself, although its narrative con- 
tinues the two previous volumes in the Young Pur- 
itans Series. It tells the story of three English 
children’s experiences as captives among the Indi- 
ans during King Philip’s War. Incidentally it 
gives many details of Indian customs. The worst 
barbarities of the Indians’ treatment of prisoners 
are not pictured. Those who wish to know such 
details will find them in abundance in Parkman’s 
Histories, in the Jesuit Relations, in Drake’s 
“ Tragedies of the Wilderness,” in Colonel Smith’s 
“ Captivity with the Indians;” in short, in all the 
narratives of returned captives. I commend these 
histories strongly to the older among my young 
readers. The quaint words of the old narratives 
make the tragic, heroic times live again, and 
these true stories are infinitely more thrilling 
and interesting than any fiction. 


Vlll 


PREFACE. 


The endurance, the fortitude shown, even by 
young children, seem to surpass the powers of 
human nature. In horrors and sufferings incredi- 
ble, the Puritans were sustained by their indom- 
itable religious faith. God, heaven, hell, were 
vivid realities even to the Puritan children; the 
great realities. Many illustrations might be 
quoted from the old narratives. In Mrs. Row- 
landson’s Narrative, she says of her son, a young 
boy, taken captive at Lancaster with her, but sep- 
arated from her, and alone among the savages : — 

“ Hearing that my son was come to this place, 
I went to see him, and found him lying flat on the 
ground. I asked him how he could sleep so. He 
answered me that he was not asleep, but at prayer, 
and that he lay so that they might not observe 
what he was doing.” 

In Colonel Smith’s Narrative, he says of a fel- 
low prisoner, Campbell, like Smith, then a youth 
of about sixteen : — 

“ He borrowed my Bible, and made some perti- 
nent remarks on what he had read. One passage 
was where it said : It is good for a man that he 
bear the yoke in his youth.’ He said we ought to 


PREFACE. 


ix 


be resigned to the will of Providence, as we were 
now bearing the yoke in our youth.” 

Many similar instances might be quoted as evi- 
dence that the basis of the heroic quality animat- 
ing both old and young Puritans was the religious 
faith in which their natures were imbued from 
earliest childhood. 

M. P. w. S. 

Greenfield, Mass., 

April 14th, 1899. 





CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

I. Jonathan’s Experiences 1 

II. Another Alarum 23 

III. The Captive Girls 41 

IV. On the Northward Trail 55 

V. Life among the Indians 69 

VI. An Indian Doctor 81 

VII. Submit tries her Plan 93 

VIII. Disappointed Hopes 108 

IX. Winter on the Hoosac 120 

X. To Canada 134 

XI. John’s Capture 151 

XII. John becomes an Indian 164 

XIII. Among the Mohawks 178 

XIV. John goes Hunting 192 

XV. The Otkon brings Success 205 

XVI. The Arts of Chinnohete 220 

XVII. On the War-Path 234 

XVIII. To Quebec 249 

XIX. The Unexpected happens 260 

XX. Another Surprise 276 

XXI. The Escape 292 

XXII. Home at last , . . 304 

















































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ILLUSTRATIONS. 


FROM DRAWINGS BY JESSIE WILLCOX SMITH. 


“I HAVE TAUGHT HIM TO PLAY CAT’s-CRADLE WITH A 

BIT OF STRING ” Frontispiece 

The Girls knelt on the Branches with Clasped 

Hands Page 43 

“We must run away” 78 

Running the Gauntlet 158 

“ He is a Papist Priest,” thought John 213 

“Howl away, my painted beauties” 302 







THE 


YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


CHAPTER I. 

Jonathan’s experiences. 

I T may be well to open this story with a brief 
resume of the events of King Philip’s War, 
in the midst of which its scenes are laid. 

This bloody conflict began June 24, 1675, 
with an attack on Swanzey. Philip and his 
Wampanoags, after doing other mischief in Ply- 
mouth County and vicinity, fled to Hampshire 
County, where they joined the Nipmucks in an 
attack on Quabaug, or Brookfield, 1 wholly de- 
stroying that settlement. From this time until 
February, 1676, the handful of frontier settlements 
in the Connecticut Valley bore the whole brunt of 
the war, Philip and his forces venting all their 
fury upon them, aided by the local tribes, whom 
Philip had incited against their old neighbors. 
The Colony of Connecticut, realizing the imminent 
danger to her own plantations should those above 

1 Hampshire County at this time included Brookfield. 

1 


2 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

be destroyed, hastened to send up troops to the aid 
of the harassed settlers. 

Hadley, the military head-quarters, was attacked 
by a large force of Indians on a fast day, Septem- 
ber 1st. The panic-stricken people were rallied 
and led to repel this assault by the sudden appear- 
ance in their midst of a mysterious stranger, an 
old man of military bearing, called afterwards all 
over New England, for this timely deliverance, 
“ the Angel of Hadley.” A few inhabitants of 
Hadley knew that this mysterious old man was 
living concealed in the house of their venerated 
minister, Mr. John Russell. Northfield was de- 
stroyed by the Indians September 6th. On Sep- 
tember 18th a force o-f seventy soldiers under 
Captain Lothrop was despatched from Hadley by 
Major Pynchon, commander-in-chief, to escort 
sundry wheat-carts from Pocumtuck, or Deerfield, 
to Hadley. This force was surprised in crossing a 
little stream 1 flowing under the shadow of Mt. 
Wequamps, 2 and Lothrop and most of his men 
were slain. Over sixty soldiers were buried in 
one vast grave, on the spot where they fell. Deer- 
field was now abandoned, the third settlement in 
Hampshire County thus desolated. October 5th 
Springfield was attacked, and nearly destroyed. 
October 19th a desperate attack was made by 
several hundred Indians upon Hatfield, but, as 

1 Bloody Brook, South Deerfield. 2 Sugarloaf Mountain. 


Jonathan’s experiences. 


3 


Hubbard says, “ they were so well entertained on 
all hands that they found it too hot for them,” 
and, after burning some buildings, “ the enemy 
hasted away as fast as they came on.” 

The settlers in the Connecticut Valley passed an 
anxious winter, busily fortifying their towns with 
palisades against the Indian assaults which they 
well knew might be expected with the melting of 
the snow. Spring brought them the disastrous 
tidings of the destruction of the Narragansett fort 
by the English, and the bloody revenge wrought 
by the Indians in the eastern settlements, at Lan- 
caster, Medfield, Mendon, Weymouth, and other 
places. To their alarm, they learned that this 
large force of maddened savages was even then 
being pursued by Major Savage’s army into the 
wilderness along the Connecticut north of Hadley. 
March 8th Major Savage and his forces marched 
into Hadley. Philip and his band and many of 
the routed Indians to the east were now gathered 
at Squakeag 1 and vicinity. Unaware that Major 
Savage’s forces had reached Hadley, a large body 
of these Indians made a desperate assault on 
Northampton, being repulsed with considerable 
loss. The people of the valley, exasperated at 
the repeated bloody assaults upon them, the de- 
struction of their property, and the growing bold- 
ness of the Indians, realized that active measures 


1 Northfield. 


4 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

must speedily be taken against the enemy, would 
they save the remaining settlements. Learning 
from escaped captives that large bodies of Indians 
were encamped at Peskeompskut Falls 1 on the 
Connecticut for the fishing, and at Pocumtuck, 
on whose fertile meadows they had confidently 
planted large fields of grain, and that, made bold 
by past successes, they rested in entire security 
from apprehensions of attack by the despised Eng- 
lish, the settlers resolved to fall upon the Indians, 
dealing a destructive blow, and preventing their 
gathering stores of food for the winter. 

On the night of Thursday, May 18th, Captain 
William Turner of Boston with one hundred and 
fifty «men marched to the north. At break of day 
they fell on the Indians at Peskeompskut Falls, 
wholly destroying the encampment. Delaying too 
long, Indians from neighboring camps came to the 
rescue, falling on the victorious English while in 
the act of mounting their horses. In the dis- 
astrous retreat Captain Turner and many others 
were slain. Captain Holyoke, with a brave hand- 
ful of men, helped cover the retreat, and led the 
shattered remnant of the little army back into 
Hatfield. Here it was found that over forty-five 
men were missing. 

Among the missing were Mr. Hope Atherton, 
the godly and beloved young minister of Hatfield, 

1 Turner’s Falls. 


Jonathan’s experiences. 


5 


who had volunteered as chaplain of the expedition, 
and Jonathan Wells and John Ellis of Hadley, 
boys barely sixteen years old, who had insisted 
upon volunteering, and who had borne their part 
valiantly throughout. They were last seen by their 
returned comrades fighting in a small party which 
had bravely offered to hold back a body of Indians 
crossing the river in canoes. Their fate was un- 
known. Jonathan Wells was a scion of one of the 
pioneer families of Hadley ; John Ellis, the son of 
a pious nonconformist who had moved from 
England to Hadley the year before the outbreak 
of King Philip’s War. Goodman Ellis had four 
children, — John, Prudence, and two little children, 
Nathan and Abigail. 

A terrible blow had fallen upon the Ellises the 
previous September in the capture of their dear 
young daughter Prudence, aged about thirteen. 
She and her friend Submit Carter, venturing out- 
side Pladley on a rush-gathering expedition with 
a careless maidservant, had been captured and 
borne away to the north by two prowling Indians, 
Petomanch and Wadnummin, who before the war 
had lived in the Norwottuck fort at Hatfield, now 
abandoned. 

Submit’s real name was Francesca Cartier. Her 
mother, a French woman, was dead. Her father, 
a sailor, had never returned from his last voyage. 
Francesca had been “ bound out” in hard service to 


6 


THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


the Widow Burnham, who had changed her name 
to Submit, as more appropriate for a bound girl. 

This book recounts the adventures among the 
Indians of the captive girls and John Ellis. But, 
first, as to the fate of John’s gallant friend and 
comrade, young Jonathan Wells. 

The party of men whom Jonathan Wells had 
joined after the battle of Peskeompskut Falls soon 
ran upon a band of Indians near the edge of the 
swamp, and were nearly all killed or captured. 
Jonathan escaped. His wounded horse being 
unable to keep up with the others, he pushed on 
at random into the woods, anywhere away from 
the wild uproar sweeping on where the Indians 
hung close on the trail of the retreating soldiers. 

Faint and dizzy from his wound and lack of 
food, he remembered that his grandmother Cole- 
man, in saying good-by, had handed him a nut- 
meg, saying, — 

“ Put this in thy pouch, Jonathan. ’T will take 
little room, and a bite of it may revive thee.” 

So Jonathan nibbled his nutmeg, feeling its 
spicy taste and familiar odor a sort of link with 
far-away home. Should he ever see that home 
again ? Small, indeed, seemed the possibility. 

A little revived by the nutmeg, he pressed on 
until he came out on the shore of Green River. 
The whole region was entirely unknown to him. 
The march up under Captain Turner had been in 


Jonathan’s experiences. 


7 


the thick darkness of a rainy night. He did not 
recognize this as the river he had then forded. 
Lost and turned about in the trackless wilderness, 
he had simply come to an unknown stream, run- 
ning he knew not whither. 

Uncertain which way to go, he followed the 
river up for a mile or two. Crossing it where the 
western mountains narrow in towards the stream, 
he began to ascend the mountain, hoping thus 
to get a view of the surrounding country, and so 
perhaps some clue to his locality. 

When partly up the hill, he fainted and fell 
from his horse. How long he lay unconscious 
he could not tell. When he revived, he found his 
horse’s bridle still hanging on his hand, and the 
faithful beast standing over him. He managed to 
tie the horse, and then threw himself down on the 
dead leaves strewing the ground in the woods. 

As the wounded boy, pale with suffering, lay 
there alone on the mountain’s side, nature’s uncon- 
scious joy contrasted painfully with his feelings. 
The dogwood raised its starry, spiritual blossoms 
radiantly on high ; the wild columbine nodded 
gayly from the rocks ; squirrels scampered up and 
down tree-trunks for pure fun., it seemed, and the 
woods rippled with the gladness of birds’ songs. 
Far up on high an eagle soared and dipped and 
curved, now but a speck in the deep blue above, 
now flashing down so near that Jonathan’s lan- 


8 


THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


guid eye caught the silvery reflection from its 
body beneath the long, dark wings, as away it 
soared again. 

“ Oh that I had yon eagle’s wings ! ” thought 
Jonathan. “ How speedily would I fly home ! ” 

The sun, high overhead, glinting through the 
tender green leaves, told him it was noon, — Fri- 
day noon. 

“ Is it worth while to struggle on, or shall I 
give up and die here in the wilderness alone ?” he 
pondered. 66 Nay,” he thought, “ I ’ll not give 
up till I must. I ’ll try again for life.” 

Staggering to his horse, he untied it, and tried 
to climb into the saddle, but found himself too 
weak. After several vain attempts, he sank back, 
shaking loose the bridle of his horse, saying as he 
did so, — 

“ Go, poor nag. ’T will do no good to keep 
thee here to perish too. Perchance thy instinct 
may yet bring thee home.” 

The horse seemed to understand. He' turned 
and limped down hill towards the river ; Jona- 
than despairingly lying watching this last link 
with home and life vanish until the woods hid 
the horse from view. Only then did it occur to 
him, — 

“ Why did not I bethink myself to take the 
rations from his back? All is o’er with me 
now.” 


Jonathan’s experiences. 


9 


He lay utterly forlorn on the hillside, as the sun 
slowly sank, hardly conscious. At length the 
swarms of flies and gnats abounding in the woods 
so tormented him that he was roused to exert 
himself against these pests. Remembering his 
old trick, by great exertion he managed to pull 
together a pile of dead leaves, dry sticks, and pine 
cones, and stopping the touch-hole of his gun, 
struck fire, and so kindled a blaze, which to his 
dismay, once started, spread literally like “ wild 
fire” over the ground, threatening to burn Jona- 
than, he not having strength to escape. 

Again his quick wit and woodman’s skill came 
to his aid. Although his hair and hands were 
badly burned in the effort, he contrived to scrape 
a spot bare of leaves and brush large enough in 
which to lie safely. Here, spent and panting, he 
lay, watching the fire creeping out along the 
ground into the woods. 

The night wind blew cool and damp upon him, 
chilled as he was from faintness and loss of blood. 
Both for warmth and protection from the wild 
beasts which he heard howling in the woods 
around, as night fell, he dragged some pine sticks 
and cones together on the scorched ground, and 
making a fire, threw himself down close beside it. 

Then a new terror beset him. The blaze of this 
fire in the night might — nay, probably would — 
direct the savages to him! 


10 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ 1 ’m too weak and spent to stand, say naught 
of fighting,” thought he. “ I can do naught. ’T is 
plain my end draweth nigh. I ’ll save enough 
powder for one last shot at the savages, and throw 
the rest where they ’ll not lay hands on it.” 

Saving one charge, with all his remaining force 
he threw his powder-horn one way into the sur- 
rounding forest, his bullet-pouch the other, lying 
down to await what he felt must be the certain 
end. 

The dry pine branches snapped and blazed, 
lighting up the sombre, lonely aisles of the woods 
for a little way with its ruddy glare. Beyond 
was darkness, darkness out of which might any 
instant leap a bloodthirsty Indian. High over- 
head shone down the stars, — the same stars at 
which Jonathan had so often gazed when pacing 
Hadley’s quiet street as one of the night watch. 

“ Doubtless they at home are mourning me as 
dead to-night,” thought Jonathan, gazing up at 
the stars. 

But now he noticed that the fire had spread 
wide in the woods around, and was as likely to 
direct the Indians somewhere else as to him. 
Courage and hope revived at seeing this. Draw- 
ing some tow from his pouch, and laying it on his 
wounded thigh, he managed to bind it on with his 
handkerchief and neck-cloth. This stanched the 
bleeding. Then this thought came into his mind : 


Jonathan’s experiences. 11 

“ God is here. He is as near me now as in 
Hadle} 7 palisades. I will commend myself to His 
mercy. Perchance it may be His will yet to save 
me.” 

Every word of the desolate boy’s prayer came 
from his heart. Comforted by his faith in a 
watchful, overruling Love, he lay down by his 
fire and slept the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. 

In this sleep a strange dream, if it were a 
dream, came to him. An old man seemed to 
stand over the boy, looking pityingly down upon 
him. Although Jonathan had never seen his 
grandfather, Hugh Wells, he having died in 
Wethersfield long years before Jonathan’s birth, 
yet he knew at once that this was his grandfather 
Wells. 

“ Grandson,” said the vision, “ thou art lost and 
pursuing the wrong way. Turn thee about, and 
journey down this river until thou readiest the 
end of the mountain. Then turn away upon the 
plain, and so thou wilt reach home.” 

So vivid was this dream that Jonathan awoke, 
looking around, bewildered, for the grandsire 
whose voice he seemed still to hear. But he was 
alone, so far as human eye in its feeble stretch of 
vision could see. It was the dim, early dawn of 
another day. His deep sleep and the fact that his 
bleeding had stopped had given him fresh strength. 
Cheered, too, by the influence of the morning and 


12 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

his remarkable dream, hope revived, and he re- 
solved to make another effort to save himself. 

“Verily,” he thought, “that was a strange 
dream. I could take my oath that my grandsire 
stood o’er me but now. ’T was a dream of fair 
omen, methinks. Yet its directions must be wrong, 
for yonder lieth the west, unless I am sorely mis- 
taken and turned about.” 

Stiff and lame, he rose with difficulty, limping 
about in the bushes, searching for his powder- 
horn and bullet-pouch. When at last he found 
them, he could but feel this another good omen. 

The red rim of the sun now peeped up over 
what Jonathan had been sure were the western 
hills. 

“There’s no gainsaying that witness,” thought 
Jonathan. “’Tis plain as a pikestaff now that I 
was completely turned about. I will follow the 
directions of my dream, which I cannot doubt was 
a vision sent from God.” 

Painfully he hobbled down to, and then along, 
the banks of Green River, using his gun as a staff 
to support his feeble steps. He made but slow 
progress, being often forced to stop and throw 
himself on the ground to rest. Then again he 
struggled up, hobbling on as far as his strength 
would carry him. Not a mouthful had he eaten 
since the day before the battle. He had no 
strength to dig for roots or search for bark, even 


Jonathan’s experiences. 13 

had be not felt that Indians might fall upon him 
at any instant. He simply dragged himself on by 
sheer force of will, inch by inch, foot by foot, rod 
by rod. 

Crawling along thus painfully, he at last reached 
the end of the high ledge of trap rock 1 rising 
abruptly near the shore of • Green River on his 
left. Above him on his right he saw high land. 
Might it be the plain his dream had mentioned ? 

“At least, there’s rio harm in trying it,” he 
thought, as he struggled up the steep bank, com- 
ing out on a sandy plain covered with a thick 
growth of pines . 2 A few moments more, and to 
his joy he came into a path much trampled with 
recent tracks of horses’ hoofs, trending south- 
ward. Nor were moccasin prints lacking. 

“Thanks be to God,” thought Jonathan, “this 
is plainly the path up and down which our army 
journeyed to the Falls ! With this guide I cannot 
fail to reach home, an my strength hold out, if I 
encounter no Indians. Now I know that my 
dream was verily sent of God for my guidance.” 

Much cheered by these thoughts, he followed 
the path across the plain and down the hill, until 
it brought him to the bank of the Pocumtuck 
River, winding through its solitary green meadows, 
wild, free, beautiful. Was it possible for him to 


i Rocky Mountain, in Greenfield. 


2 Petty’s Plain. 


14 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

ford the broad stream, full now after the recent 
rain ? 

“ I can but try,” thought Jonathan, as he waded 
in. The swift current bore his useless lame leg 
across the other, nearly throwing him down. 
Forced to use his gun for a staff, he put the 
muzzle down, determined not to wet the lock, and 
leaning on it, at last succeeded in wading across 
and struggling up the farther bank. 

Much exhausted by this effort, he lay down 
under a walnut bush on the bank and fell into a 
heavy sleep. How long he slept he knew not. 
Suddenly he woke with a presentiment of danger 
near. To his horror he saw an Indian in a canoe 
paddling directly towards him. 

The muzzle of Jonathan’s gun was filled with 
wet sand. What could he do? The mind works 
rapidly in such emergencies. Starting up, Jona,- 
than aimed his gun resolutely at the Indian, as if 
about to fire. The Indian leaped from his canoe, 
leaving it to float off down stream, and bound- 
ing up the bank, disappeared. 

Jonathan well knew that, although he had 
escaped this Indian, probably many more would 
soon be on his track. Wildly he looked about for 
some hiding-place. 

Near by was a swampy thicket. Hobbling 
towards it, by good fortune he found two tree- 
trunks that had washed down in the spring 


Jonathan’s experiences. 


15 


freshets, lodged half on the bank, half in the water, 
lying slightly apart, but covered with a loose mass 
of driftwood and brush. Wading down to these 
logs in the water from above, thus leaving no tell- 
tale footprints for the Indians’ sharp eyes, Jona- 
than ducked under the tree-trunks, and found he 
could stand up between them, his head out of 
water yet wholly hidden by the driftwood above. 

With fast-beating heart he waited. Soon he 
heard the sound of footsteps running up and down 
the bank above, footsteps of Indians in search of 
him. Several times the Indians actually stood 
above him on the logs, sinking them, so that Jona- 
than was forced to duck his head under water. 
Taking a long breath, as of old when swimming 
with the Hadley boys, he dived down, being nearly 
drowned before he could come up again to breathe. 

He heard plainly the Indians’ grunts of dis- 
appointment when at last they gave up the vain 
search. The Indian who had seen him was evi- 
dently a Narragansett, for Jonathan heard an 
Indian say, in a tone of disgust, — 

“ Huh, the Narragansett is no brave ! He is an 
old squaw. He ran for a musquash ! ” 

Although the Indians now went away, yet, 
knowing their craftiness, it was long ere Jonathan 
ventured to crawl forth from his hiding-place, so 
benumbed and chilled by standing long in the cold 
water with his wounded leg that it was almost 


16 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

impossible to drag himself on. Yet on he must 
struggle. It was his only chance for life. 

He hobbled along the path through Pocumtuck 
north meadow in the waning sunlight of that 
dreary Saturday afternoon, his ears strained for 
the slightest sound that might give warning of 
Indians. The call of a wild turkey coming from 
Mt. Pocumtuck startled him. With heart beating 
as if it would stifle him, he stopped. Was this 
an Indian signal ? 

No answering call being given, he ventured on, 
often obliged to stop and lie down. Not a morsel 
to eat had he yet come upon. But here beside the 
meadow path lay the skeleton of a horse, killed 
no doubt in some bygone Indian raid on Pocum- 
tuck settlement. Searching the bones, Jonathan 
found a few shreds of dried flesh still clinging to 
them that crows and turkey buzzards had over- 
looked. And a little farther on, coming to a spot 
where the Indians had evidently threshed out 
their beans the previous autumn, he found two 
half-rotten beans. Gladly he ate this refuse, as 
well as two birds’ eggs he found later. 

Even these wretched morsels of food somewhat 
revived his strength. He needed all his courage 
to keep up heart as he slowly limped through the 
desolate ruins of Pocumtuck settlement. The sun 
had sunk behind the Shelburne hills. In the 
gathering shadows of the silent evening the 


Jonathan’s experiences. 


17 


densely wooded steep of Mt. Pocumtuck loomed 
up above him grand and wild, in the dim light 
seeming not unlike some huge monster couched 
beside the way. Past blackened cellar-holes where 
the scorched skeletons of trees stretched out their 
bare, black arms threateningly above him, the pale 
suffering boy hobbled on, alone in this deserted, 
gloomy spot, alone in the vast wilderness ; the 
croaking of frogs in the swamps, the snarl of 
wild beast or moan of pines borne by the evening 
wind from the mountain side, only making more 
keen his sense of utter desolation and forlornness. 

He resolved to push on all night, only lying down 
when absolutely unable to take another step. 

“ Every rod I get on tells,” he thought. 

But now he could limp only a short distance 
before he was forced to stop, when he always 
instantly dropped asleep. Twice, on waking, he 
discovered to his dismay that he had lost his bear- 
ings, and returned on his path. Once he found 
himself back again to the bars of the common 
fence in the south meadow, and again he recog- 
nized landmarks passed sometime before. On 
discovering how much ground he had lost, how 
much time and strength wasted, overcome with 
despair, he cried out, — 

“ *T is useless ! I may as well give up and lie 
down to die. I can ne’er regain the lost ground, 
I am so weak.’’ 


2 


18 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

After lying awhile prone on the ground under 
the stars, his will revived, and again he renewed 
the struggle. But hereafter, when lying down, 
he was careful to place the muzzle of his gun 
pointing towards the direction he must take on 
waking. 

In this way he toiled on during the whole night. 
In the gray of the dawn he saw Mt. Wequamps ris- 
ing in grim grandeur close before him. The path led 
him through Bloody Brook, where the trees of the 
swamp were still torn and scarred by bullets. He 
toiled feebly up the slope to the spot where beside 
the footpatli rose a great bare mound close under 
Wequamps’ shadow. 

Jonathan well knew what sorrowful loss that 
mound represented, and where he must now be, 
although he had never passed the spot in daylight. 
With horror he saw that wild beasts had dug into 
the edge of the mound, dragging out the head of 
a man. 

Exhausted and suffering as Jonathan was, he 
yet stopped, by great effort digging a cavity in 
the mound, and reburied the head. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” he thought, as he dragged him- 
self on. “ Perchance erelong some kind hand 
will be throwing earth o’er my bones here beside 
the path in the wilderness. I doubt if I can crawl 
much farther.” 

Sunday noon meeting was just out in Hatfield. 


Jonathan’s experiences. 19 

The service had been one of unusual solemnity 
and feeling. Nothing had yet been heard of the 
beloved young minister, Mr. Atherton, and his sad 
fate was considered certain. Yet fervent had 
been the prayers, the entreatings of God to spare, 
if still in the flesh, this godly servant of His, and 
bring him home in safety. 

Lieutenant Allis and wife, pale and grief- 
stricken, had come seeking comfort in the house 
of God for the loss of their brave son William, 
only twenty years old, slain at the battle of the 
falls soon to be known as “ Turner’s Falls,” in 
memory of the patriotic officer who had there lost 
his life. Noah Coleman, ghastly with the suffer- 
ings of the battle from which he died but two 
months later, Benjamin Waite, Robert Bard well, 
and others of the surviving soldiers, had appeared 
at this service to render heartfelt thanks to God 
for their merciful deliverance. 

As the meeting broke up, and the sad, serious 
concourse of people slowly came down the steps 
of the meeting-house, which stood in the middle 
of Hatfield’s wide street, two men were seen com- 
ing from the north. Who were these not in the 
house of God, venturing to walk abroad on the 
Lord’s day ? 

On nearer approach the frowns of disapproval 
were changed to looks of eager interest, as people 
recognized one of the guard stationed at the north 


20 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


gate of the palisades. He came slowly, support- 
ing in his arms a tottering form, sinking with 
weakness. 

“ Who is ’t ? Whom bringeth he ? Is it Mr. 
Atherton ? Nay, ’t is one of our poor soldiers ! ” 
were the excited comments. 

Even when he was brought near, his acquaint- 
ances with difficulty recognized young Jonathan 
Wells, wont to carry himself so jauntily with his 
bright, flowing locks, his trim dress and gallant 
air, in the ghastly pale, hollow-cheeked, sunken- 
eyed form hanging limply in the guard’s arms, 
his clothes torn, dirty, blood-stained. 

“ Praise be to God ! ’T is young Jonathan 
Wells come safely home ! ” cried some. 

Others, pressing around him, asked eagerly, — 

“ Saw or know you aught of Mr. Atherton ? ” 

A feeble shake of the head was Jonathan’s only 
reply. 

“ The poor boy is near gone. He cannot speak. 
He must have nourishment speedily,” said Good- 
wife Allis. 

The good woman, tears filling her eyes at 
thought of the boy who had nob come back, yet 
rejoicing sincerely with the more favored mother, 
hastened home, soon returning with a porringer of 
the warm broth simmering before the fire at home 
for her Sunday dinner. After taking this, a few 
sips at a time, and resting awhile, Jonathan was 


Jonathan’s experiences. 


21 


able to be borne in an ox-cart down to the ferry 
and over the river, home. 

Home ! Yes, dear home, — the home he had so 
often in his forlorn wanderings thought ne’er to 
see more. As Jonathan sank into the familiar 
bed under the old roof ; as he saw his father, tears 
of love and gratitude dimming his eyes, standing 
at the bed foot gazingly anxiously on his boy ; as 
he felt the soft touch of his mother’s hand, in 
spite of his intense pain, now grown almost un- 
bearable, Jonathan’s heart sang praises to the 
merciful God who had preserved him and brought 
him home as if by miracle. 

Dr. Locke and Granny Allison were summoned. 
After examining him, Dr. Locke took the parents 
apart, and said, — 

“ I must tell you plainly ’t is a desperate case. 
To be so sore wounded, to lie out on the ground two 
nights, and then, lame as he was, to ford streams 
and drag himself twenty miles through the wilder- 
ness, without food, is a strain few could bear. His 
youth and vigor are in his favor, but ’t were wise 
ye cherish not too great hopes of his recovery.” 

Then up spoke Granny Allison, tears shining in 
her kind old eyes, — 

“The boy hath wondrous pluck and will and 
courage, or we had ne’er seen him here. I trow 
that his pluck, with his mother’s good nursing, 
will yet pull him through, God willing.” 


22 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ God, in His loving kindness, hath been pleased 
to bring the boy home. ’T is plainly His will to 
spare him to us. We shall have our son,” said 
Goodwife Wells, her face illuminated with the 
strong light of a mother’s undying love. 


CHAPTER II. 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 

T HE Monday following Jonathan’s return, 
mourning was changed into joy in Hatfield 
by the unexpected return of the beloved minister, 
Mr. Atherton, who staggered in at noon, wan, 
haggard, and exhausted to the last point of human 
endurance. 

Up and down Hatfield street spread the joyous 
news, — 

“ Mr. Atherton hath come in ! ” 

The people crowded around their young minister 
to hear his story. Mr. Atherton said that, 
unhorsed early in the Indians’ onset, separated 
from the soldiers, he had wandered at random in 
the woods all day Friday. Ignorant of the country, 
without food, lost, and exhausted, he felt at last, 
as he said, — 

“ The providence of God seemed to require me 
to tender myself to my enemies as a captive. No 
way appeared to escape, and I had been a long time 
without food. I came out of the woods, advanced 
towards the Indians, and by such signs and 


24 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

language as I thought they would understand, 
offered myself to them as a captive. They acted 
most strangely. When I spake they answered not, 
nor did they make any motion to take me. When 
I again advanced towards them, they turned and 
fled. An awe seemed to be upon them. It was 
as if God had given the heathen a charge saying, 
Let him alone ; he shall have his life for a prey.” 

Here some of the folk in the crowd shook 
their heads compassionately, whispering to one 
another, — 

“ Poor man ! His sufferings have made him 
daft ! ” 

“ Other remarkable deliverances hath the hand 
of God wrought for me,” continued the minister, in 
feeble tones, “ but I am too sorely spent to recount 
them. On next Lord’s Day, if my Deliverer be 
pleased to grant me strength, I purpose publicly 
to testify to His unmerited goodness in my signal 
escapes.” 

Many felt that Mr. Atherton, distraught by his 
sufferings, had deceived himself about the behavior 
of the Indians. But the following Sunday, after 
a sermon by Mr. Stoddard of Northampton, the 
young minister, looking like a ghost of his former 
self, rose in his pulpit and, supporting himself 
against the desk as he looked solemnly down on 
the throng of eager listeners crowding every corner 
of the little meeting-house, again repeated the tale 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 25 

of his miraculous deliverance. His aspect testified 
to his truth when he said, — 

“ I have passed through the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death, and both the rod and staff of 
God have delivered me.” 

After repeating the story of his first deliverance, 
he told how again on Saturday he had resolved to 
offer himself as a captive to the Indians. 

“ Not long after the sun did set,” he said, “ I 
declared with submission that I would go to the 
Indian habitations. Accordingly I endeavored ; 
but God, whose thoughts were higher than my 
thoughts, prevented me. By His good providence 
I was carried beside the path I intended to walk 
in, and brought to the side of the great river, which 
was a good guide unto me. 

“ The most observable passage of providence 
was on the Sabbath morning. Having entered 
upon a plain, I saw two or three spies, who I at 
first thought had a glance upon me, wherefore I 
turned aside and lay down. They climbed up into 
a tree to spy. Then my soul secretly begged of 
God that He would put it into their hearts to go 
away. I waited patiently, and it was not long ere 
they went away. 

“ Two things 1 must not pass over that are 
matter of thanksgiving unto God ; the first is, that 
when my strength was far spent, I passed through 
deep waters and they overflowed me not, according 


26 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

to the gracious words of Isaiah xliii. 2 ; the second 
is, that I subsisted for the space of three days and 
a part of a fourth without ordinary food. I thought 
upon those words, ‘Man shall live not by bread 
alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of 
the mouth of the Lord. 

Then, his pale face transfigured with deep feel- 
ing, the minister exclaimed, — 

“ I think it not too much to say that, should 
you and I be silent and not set forth the praises 
of God through Jesus Christ, the very stones and 
beams of our houses would sing hallelujah ! ” 

Mr. Atherton never regained strength after this 
fearful ordeal, dying from its effects in but little 
over a year. Long after his death, his truth was 
confirmed, and the mystery of the Indians’ strange 
conduct explained, by some Indians who told 
Jonathan Wells, — 

“ After the Fall fight, a little man in a black 
coat without any hat came toward us and offered 
himself to us. But we were afraid and ran from 
him, thinking he was the Englishman’s God, fear- 
ing to lay hands on him.” 

Evidently the savage brains had conceived some 
vague idea of the minister as a sacred being, whom 
it would not be safe for them to burn and torture, 
as they had others of the English who surrendered 
themselves to the savages the Monday after the 
battle on condition that their lives be spared. 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 


27 


Immediately after the soldiers’ return, Mr. Russell 
hastened to write an account of the battle to the 
Council of War at Hartford, who sent Captain 
Newberry with eighty men up to Northampton the 
Monday following the battle. That Monday night 
John Hawks and other scouts were sent up from 
Hadley to discover the state of things among the 
enemy. Slipping cautiously along under cover of 
the darkness, they reached the summit of the trap- 
rock ledge overlooking the Connecticut and the 
scene of the recent battle . 1 They returned from 
this dangerous trip safely, bringing the alarming 
report that fires were burning in the Indians’ old 
camping-places on both sides of the river at the 
Falls, as also on the islands, and that a large body 
of Indians were at Pocumtuck. 

This news was discouraging, for the settlers 
believed that Philip had come into Pocumtuck 
with 'fresh forces. Mr. Russell and the militia 
committee wrote again to Hartford for help, urging 
that now was the time to follow up the havoc 
lately wrought upon the enemy by another 
effective blow, before they could gather their crops. 

One night, about this time, Goodman Ellis, 
coming home from his work on Fort Meadow, 
found his wife wearing a troubled face. 

“ What now, good wife ? ” he asked. “ I trust 
no ill tidings of our savage foes.” 

1 “ Poets’ Seat,” on Rocky Mountain in Greenfield. 


28 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Nay. But I look for a speedy judgment on us 
of Hadley an Goody Webster’s witchcraft prac- 
tices be not abated. She carrieth things with a 
high hand of late.” 

“ What evil hath the witch wrought now ? ” 
asked Goodman Ellis. 

“ Her strange antics prove her in close league 
with the Black Man, w r ere such proof needed,” said 
his wife. “ Yester even she went up to the house 
of our godly kinsman, Philip Smith, and gave 
vent to violent complaint that he, in discharge of 
his duty as townsman, hath neglected her, not giv- 
ing her the aid she deemeth her due from the 
town. Philip answered to her ravings, — 

“ 6 Woman, hold thy peace. Thou hast far more 
than thou deservest from us of Hadley. In truth, 
hadst thou thy true deserts, thou wouldst be no 
charge on us, for thou wouldst be shut up in 
Boston gaol for a witch ! ’ ” 

“ Me thinks that was somewhat rashly spoken,” 
said Goodman Ellis. 

“ Rebecca, Philip’s wife, was sore distressed lest 
he anger the witch. That moment she heard an 
amazing cry from her babe Ichabod, sleeping in 
his cradle before the fire. To her horror, she 
and Philip also plainly saw Ichabod rise thrice to 
the chamber floor above, though no human being 
was near the cradle, and no visible hand touched 
him ! ” 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 


29 


“ A portentous happening ! ” exclaimed Good- 
man Ellis. 

“ Three several times the body of that innocent 
babe was thus raised and then suffered to fall 
back into his cradle ; the last time so roughly that 
he cried out sorely. Rebecca flew to seize him 
from the Evil One, who doubtless had his clutches 
fastened on the child — ” 

Here Watch, stretching himself out more lux- 
uriously before the fire, chanced to hit against 
Nathan’s dangling foot. Nathan started violently, 
and slipped along the settle still closer towards his 
father, casting a fearful look around the darkening 
room. 

“ Philip would have fallen upon the evil witch 
then and there. But she vanished out the door, 
laughing scornfully, and calling back o’er her 
shoulder, — 

“ ‘ Have a care, Philip Smith, how thou pratest 
to me of deservings, lest some day One deal with 
thee as thy flinty heart deserveth.’ ” 

“ Did little Ichabod suffer any harm ? ” asked 
Goodman Ellis. “ A baptized child ought to be 
armor proof e’en against Satan himself.” 

“ None that Rebecca can find, save sundry black 
and blue prints on his legs and arms, as though 
he had been pinched. But Philip is apprehensive 
of sore mischief yet at Goody Webster’s hands, 
she beareth him such venomous spite.” 


30 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ When Satan assaulteth babes, ’t is high time 
our magistrates took action,” said Goodman Ellis. 
“ Above all, in these perilous times of war, it be- 
hooveth them to set their faces like a flint against 
the Devil and all his works.” 

Mr. Russell’s letter asking aid could hardly have 
reached Hartford when the Indians to the north 
gave proof that their spirit was not broken by the 
recent blow at Peskeompskut Falls. 

Hadley was thrown into alarm Thursday morn- 
ing, when an inhabitant riding to the exposed mill 
three miles north of the settlement was shot at 
from the woods. He succeeded in escaping with 
his life, galloping back into the palisades as fast 
as his frightened horse could run, bringing the 
terrible message, — 

“ The Indians ! The Indians be upon us ! ” 

John Smith, Sam Porter, Sam Smith, and others 
sent up as a scouting-party to learn the amount of 
the danger, were fired upon from the Indians’ am- 
bush beside the path, and the mill was also fired 
upon. 

Nothing could be more alarming to Hadley than 
an attack on their mill. That destroyed, it would 
be well-nigh impossible to furnish food not merely 
for their people, but for the many soldiers con- 
stantly quartered there. The mill must be saved 
at all hazards. A messenger was despatched to 
Captain Newberry, who hastened over the river, 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 31 

where he was joined by & number of the Hadley 
men. 

As this force neared the mill, the Indians fled, 
though several were seen hovering about in the 
distance, and tracks of many Indians were seen. 
Scattered about on the ground lay the mangled 
bodies of nine Hadley horses, and many cattle had 
disappeared, evidently driven off by the Indians. 

“ ’T is a great mercy your mill is spared,” said 
Captain Newberry, as he rode up to the mill door, 
where the Boltwoods and soldiers on guard still 
stood, muskets in hands. 

“ ’T is doubtless a mercy,” answered Sergeant 
Boltwood, fire in his eye. a But I would I had 
been vouchsafed one good crack at the sneaking 
thieves who prey upon us, prowling about under 
cover of the woods, stealing our cattle. They have 
killed my black mare, as fine a horse as ever 
stepped. I ’d not have taken ten pounds for her.” 

“ T is plain, if some effectual course be not 
speedily taken against these heathen, there will 
soon be much loss, not only of cattle, but of men 
in these parts,” said Captain Newberry. 

The sad truth of these words was shown all too 
soon. A large body of Indians, bent on both 
plunder and revenge, fell on Hatfield, Tuesday, 
May 30th, only two days after Mr. Atherton had 
read before his people the story of his deliverance. 

It was a bright, perfect May day. Peace and 


32 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

beauty smiled on every side. Most of the able- 
bodied men had gone out on the meadows to work. 
Suddenly the peaceful silence was rent by the war- 
whoops of seven hundred Indians, who appeared 
upon the north meadow, and began plundering and 
burning the houses and barns outside the palisade, 
and killing or capturing cattle. The inhabitants 
left in the houses fled into the palisade, and alarm 
was hurriedly given the men on the south meadow, 
who were also able to retreat within the palisade. 
The Indians meantime continued their ravages 
outside, but were shy of attempting the palisade, 
after their experience at Northampton. 

The handful of Hatfield men were too few to 
sally out against such a body of the enemy. But 
the attack was perceived over in Hadley, where 
the smoke of burning buildings rising blackly up 
against the blue sky, the reports of muskets, and 
the cries of frightened, dying animals, told the 
inhabitants but too plainly what was happening 
at Hatfield. 

The Hadley men had gained in experience and 
therefore in courage during the war, and a deadly 
hatred and dread of the cruel foe made them eager 
to resist the Indians. On this alarm from Hat- 
field, twenty-five resolute young men of Hadley, 
among them John Smith, Philip’s youngest 
brother, seized their muskets and rushed up to the 
ferry. 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 


33 


Even in his hot haste, John Smith could but 
notice the malignant expression on Goody Web- 
ster’s face as she met him, looking on him with a 
sneering, significant smile. 

“ The vile witch rejoiceth in the day of our 
calamity,” said Smith to John Hawks, as they 
hurried on. 

“ She surely cast an evil eye on thee,” said 
Hawks. 

“ In truth, I would as soon not encounter her 
now,” said Smith. “ But neither she nor her mas- 
ter Satan shall hinder me from speeding to the 
rescue of our sore-beset brethren in Hatfield, who 
are but a handful.” 

Samuel Partridge, John Smith’s brother-in-law, 
who rowed the men over the river, said to him as 
they neared the other shore, — 

“ Be wary, John. Thou knowest the habit of 
the savages, who — ” 

Even as he spoke, a shower of bullets rained into 
the boat from the covert of the bushes on the bank, 
wounding a Connecticut soldier in the foot. The 
crafty Indians, fearing that aid might be sent over 
from Hadley, had despatched one hundred and 
fifty of their number down to the ferry to prevent 
such a reinforcement. 

The English replied by firing a brisk volley into 
the bushes, killing five or six Indians. Then, 
imitating the Indian tactics, they sheltered thern- 
3 


34 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

selves behind trees wherever possible, peering cau- 
tiously around the trunks and firing upon any Indian 
who might expose himself, thus steadily working 
their way along towards Hatfield palisades. 

John Hawks, peeping out from behind his tree, 
recognized Wonopequin, a Pocumtuck Indian well 
known to him, who, in the happy days of peace, 
had often eaten and drunk in Hawks’s log-cabin at 
Pocumtuck settlement. Wonopequin, on his side, 
peering warily out from the covert of another tree - 
trunk, recognized Hawks at the same moment, and 
cried out tauntingly, — 

“ Ho, ho, Goodman Hawks ! Come forth and 
fight Wonopequin like a brave ! Goodman Hawks 
is not a squaw ! ” 

“ That I will prove full soon on thy painted skin, 
thou slippery rogue, do thou but give me a chance,” 
cried Hawks, hotly. “ Come forth thyself, thou 
rascal, an thou art so eager for the fray.” 

Each, however, in spite of these cordial invi- 
tations, kept carefully in hiding, waiting for any 
rash exposure of the other which might enable 
him to take his enemy at a disadvantage. 

The wily Wonopequin well knew that the su- 
perior force of his band would soon bring Indians 
up to fall upon Hawks from the rear, thus driving 
him from his ambush, when Wonopequin could 
easily slay him. Grim joy filling his soul, he 
stealthily waited for this opportunity. 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 


35 


Suddenly he thought the moment of victory had 
come, for Hawks leaped forth from behind his tree, 
aiming his gun back as if to repel a foe coming 
from behind him. 

Out bounded Wonopequin with a triumphant 
whoop. Like a flash, Hawks wheeled, and shot 
the Indian before he could even raise his gun ; for, 
seeing the chances as clearly as Wonopequin, 
Hawks had used this bold stratagem to lure his 
enemy out and save his own life. Their many 
encounters with the Indians were teaching the 
settlers ready wit, quick eyes, steady hands, new 
expedients, and unflinching courage. 

The resolute little company of but twenty-five 
English, pitted against one hundred and fifty 
Indians, fought their way manfully towards Hat- 
field, killing many Indians, but not losing a man 
themselves until within a hundred rods of the pali- 
sades, when the Indians rushed out of ambush, 
exposing themselves in an unusual manner, making 
a ferocious assault. Five of the English were slain, 
including John Smith, and probably all the little 
band would have perished had not the Hatfield 
men, seeing their friends so hard beset, sallied out 
to the rescue, enabling the remnant to get safely 
within the palisade. 

The Indians had left a guard on the North- 
ampton road to warn them of the approach of 
Captain Newberry and his soldiers, which they 


3G THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

expected any moment. In this fear they now 
withdrew, leaving behind them twelve burning 
houses and barns, crops ruined on the trampled, 
pillaged meadows, and the fields empty and deso- 
late, so lately dotted over with peacefully grazing 
sheep and cattle. All were gone now, driven off 
by the Indians to their northern strongholds. 

The death of John Smith, a young man of noble 
character, in the prime of his powers, was deeply 
lamented in Hadley, and great sympathy was felt 
for his aged father, the brave and public-spirited 
Lieutenant Samuel Smith. In his history of the 
wars, Mather wrote of John Smith, — 

“ Among them [the slain] was a precious young 
man whose name was Smith, that place having lost 
many in losing that one man. It speaketh sadly 
to the rising generation when such are taken away.” 

Smith’s body had been with difficulty rescued 
from Indian scalping-knives, and borne within 
Hatfield palisades. In the quiet sunset of an early 
June evening it was followed out to the meadow 
burying-ground by a long train of the people of 
Hadley, walking in procession, two by two, the 
bearers taking turns in carrying the coffin. With 
solemn tap of muffled drum the sad procession was 
escorted by the train band, two of whom trailed 
their pikes as a sign of mourning for their late 
comrade. 

Stern Puritan custom forbade any prayer or 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 


37 


word at the grave. Mr. Russell stood with silent 
sympathy beside the aged parents, who bore them- 
selves with the mournful dignity of those whose 
grieving hearts rebel not against the will of God. 
All eyes fell pityingly on the young widow, her 
little ones clinging to her in sorrowful bewilder- 
ment at the scene so strange to them. An infant 
daughter born to her soon after its father’s death, 
she named “ Marah,” the Hebrew word for “ bit- 
terness.” 

When all the people of Hadley were so moved 
and so generally assembled to do honor to the brave 
Smith, the absence of Goody Webster did not fail 
to excite remark. After the customary prayer- 
meeting, held the night of the funeral with the 
mourning family, Philip Smith said to the little 
knot of more intimate friends still lingering in the 
house of mourning, — 

“ I cannot for a moment doubt that my precious 
brother fell a victim to the evil eye cast upon him as 
he went forth to battle by Goody Webster, to which 
Goodman Hawks freely testifieth. Her evil arts 
are oft exercised on me and mine. But Tuesday a 
week I was forced to have some converse with her 
as townsman, and drew her wrath down on my 
head. She vowed vengeance, and the next day I 
cut my leg sorely when chopping. I look for more 
serious hurt from her.” 

“ ’T is said that divers strange lights have been 


38 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

observed of late in the meadow back of her house, 
dancing about in a demoniacal fashion, by sundry 
of the middle squadron of the night watch,” said 
Deacon Dickinson. 

“ My wife could let the shrew have but a penny- 
worth of milk the other day when she wanted 
more,” testified Goodman Ellis. “ The witch be- 
rated my poor wife savagely at the time, and the 
next day our cow nearly dried up, and her milk is 
as yellow as saffron ever since.” 

“ The Lord is speaking aloud to us in many 
portentous warnings,” said Mr. Russell. “I am in- 
formed by credible witnesses among the Connecti- 
cut troops that on the last Tuesday in March, two 
hours before sundown, the report of a great gun 
was heard in the air at Milford, New Haven, 
Branford, and Middletown, and soon after the noise 
of a volley of shot, then the beat of a drum fol- 
lowed by another volley, though there were no 
guns fired or drums beaten in that region.” 

“ What is this omen thought to portend, wor- 
shipful Mr. Russell ? ” asked Philip Smith. 

“ ’T was doubtless a forewarning from the Lord 
of the dire calamities about to fall upon the heads 
of His people in these parts,” answered Mr. Russell. 
“ Unless the Lord be graciously pleased to restrain 
the hand of Satan, we shall all likewise perish. 
But I look for a mighty deliverance from Him 
speedily. Word cometh from the Bay that our 


ANOTHER ALARUM. 


39 


governor and councillors are resolved to use every 
effort towards a speedy ending of this bloody war, 
if the Lord see that our enemies have done enough 
against us.” 

Philip and his main body were known to be lying 
at or near Mt. Wachuset. Five hundred men, 
horse and foot, from the Massachusetts Colony 
were to be on the march for Wachuset by June 1st, 
and Connecticut Colony had been asked to send a 
like force to meet them there. The colonists deeply 
realized that a determined effort must be made to 
end the intolerable losses and suffering of the ter- 
rible conflict long to be known as “ King Philip’s 
War.” 

The Ellises had almost ceased to hope for Pru- 
dence’s return, as the long, sad winter passed into 
spring, and yet no tidings came of the captive 
girls. But the return of Jonathan Wells and 
Mr. Atherton, after they had been given up for 
dead, revived hope in his parents’ hearts that their 
son John might yet be among the living. 

One evening as they discussed this topic of which 
their hearts were full, Goodman Ellis said, — 

“ Robert Bardwell and Sergeant Kellogg both 
confidently believe that others of our men are yet 
wandering on the mountains to the westward of 
the falls, lost, perchance, as were Jonathan and 
Mr. Atherton. They think our John may yet 
return.” 


40 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

At sound of his young master’s familiar name, 
Watch, lying by the fire, started up, whined, ran 
to the outer door and out, eagerly looking about 
and wagging his tail in expectant rapture. Then 
he came in and ran as eagerly up stairs, where his 
feet were heard pattering about on the bare floor 
of John’s room overhead. 

“ The poor dumb beast is fain to break my 
heart,” said Goodwife Ellis, wiping away the over- 
flowing tears, as Watch returned crestfallen from 
his fruitless search, coming to his mistress, whin- 
ing piteously, and looking up in her face with an 
almost human expression of question and vain 
longing. 

“ Good Watch, poor Watch,” said his mistress, 
patting his head tenderly. “ Yes, Watch, I know.” 

Many a night did the mother stand in her door 
looking up and down the broad street, straining 
her eyes to watch forms seen approaching in the 
dim distance that seemed to resemble John ; and 
many a day as her husband rode out into the 
woods, his eye involuntarily searched the forest 
aisles for the form of his returning son. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE CAPTIVE GIRLS. 

W HERE had Prudence and Submit been all the 
long months since their disappearance ? 
The September night of their capture, when the 
night shadows began to settle down upon the 
river, Petomanch and his companion, Wadnummin, 
turned the canoe towards the dark shore on 
their left, a little below the mouth of Pocumtuck 
River. Stepping ashore, Petomanch motioned his 
little captives to follow. The girls, as they obeyed, 
began to cry afresh, fearful that the Indians might 
be about to kill them. 

“ Little squaws no fear,” said Wadnummin, not 
unkindly, as he and Petomanch drew the canoe 
well up on the strand, hiding it under some 
bushes. 

The girls sat down on the ground near the shore, 
clinging to each other. Petomanch gathered a 
pile of dry driftwood and pine cones. Then he 
rubbed together fast and hard two fire-sticks of 
cedar which he took from his pouch, until sparks 
fell from them, kindling the dry pile into a blaze. 


42 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

The flame mounted up, flickering in the night 
breeze, shining out on the great river’s dark waters 
swirling by, on the nearer tree-trunks and over- 
hanging branches, making the blackness beyond 
look even blacker to the girls’ fearful eyes, as 
they watched breathlessly every movement of the 
Indians. Were they kindling this fire to burn 
their captives? 

Great was their relief when Wadnummin brought 
from the canoe some fish which he and Petomanch 
had caught just before the capture of the children. 
He stuck these on sharp pointed sticks, which he 
set in the ground close around the fire. Then he 
and Petomanch busied themselves cutting feathery 
branches from pines and hemlocks. 

An odor of broiled fish filled the damp night air, 
and the Indians fell greedily to devouring their 
food. When done, they squatted down on the 
river’s brink, and making a cup in Indian fashion 
by holding their two hands closely together, scooped 
up handfuls of water, drinking at their wrists. 
Then Wadnummin motioned the captives to eat 
the scraps of fish left on the ground by the fire. 

The girls were not hungry, especially for such 
uninviting food. But fearing to disobey, they tried 
to force down a few mouthfuls of the scorched yet 
half-raw fish, with no salt to give a relish. The 
mere fact that the Indians fed them* however, 
somewhat allayed their fears. 


THE CAPTIVE GIRLS. 


43 


“ I think they mean not to slay us, since they 
give us food/’ whispered Submit. 

“ Perchance they but save us for torture/’ replied 
Prudence, her mind full of all the terrible stories 
she had heard lately of Indian cruelties. 

The Indians threw fresh logs on the fire, sending 
sparks flying in bright showers. Strewing their 
pine and hemlock branches beside the fire for a 
bed, and wrapping their blankets around them, 
they lay down with their feet to the fire, placing 
the girls between them, not binding them, as they 
would have done with older and stronger captives. 

“ Submit,” said Prudence, softly, “I would not 
lie down to sleep here in the wilderness without 
asking God’s care. He seeth everywhere, we know. 
He can see us as plainly here in the wilderness as 
though we were in our beds at home.” 

“ Yea, I know that full well,” said Submit. 
“ Let us cry unto Him, if haply He may hear and 
help.” 

As the girls rose and knelt, Petomanch’s hand 
went to his tomahawk; but Wadnummin said, — 

“ ’T is nought. The little squaws talk to the 
English Manitou.” 

“ Ugh,” grunted Petomanch, lying down again ; 
for even his rude mind was penetrated by a certain 
awe of the mysterious Great Spirit worshipped by 
the Englishmen in their strange fashion. 

The girls knelt on the branches with clasped 


44 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

hands, raising their tear-stained faces to the stars 
above, the dear familiar stars twinkling down, 
seeming a link somehow to both God and home. 
They repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and afterwards a 
little petition that God would be pleased to watch 
over them, and bring them home again if it were 
His good pleasure. Then they lay down won- 
drously comforted by the thought of this all-seeing, 
all-powerful Friend on high. They had no cover- 
ings but the little blankets pinned about their 
necks when they had left home on the rush-gather- 
ing expedition, which already seemed so long, long 
ago. 

In spite of their surroundings, the little girls, 
exhausted by grief and fright, soon fell fast asleep, 
clasped in each other’s arms. It seemed hardly an 
hour before they were wakened by a hand roughly 
shaking them. Starting up from happy dreams of 
home, the half-awake children stared bewildered on 
the two red men, the strange wild scene around. 

“ What is T ? Where are we ? ” cried Prudence. 

“ Hush, dear Pruda ! ” whispered Submit. “ Dost 
not remember we are captivated ? ” 

Yes, Pruda remembered now but too well, and 
her heart sank within her. It was still dark, 
though the chickadees in the woods about were 
beginning to wake and utter their first experi- 
mental notes, feeling their way towards the grand 
chorus to come a little later. 


THE CAPTIVE GIRLS. 45 

“ The birds tell us to be gone, ere the English 
are on our trail,” said Petomanch. 

Petomanch carried dangling by the tail a dead 
rabbit, which unluckily for itself had been stirring 
early, and had ventured out from the forest, at- 
tracted by the strange spectacle of the fire’s glow- 
ing embers, only to be pierced by Petomanch’s 
surely aimed arrow. But there was no thought 
of stopping to cook and eat the rabbit. The In- 
dians had no fixed meals, eating simply when con- 
venient, or when they were so fortunate as to have 
food. 

The one thought of Wadnummin and Peto- 
manch was to be off before pursuers were upon 
them. They pulled the girls, so lame from lying 
on the ground in the night air that they could 
hardly step at first, towards the canoe, pushed 
them in, and seizing each a paddle, with swift, 
skilful strokes sent the canoe flying up the river, 
farther and farther from Hadley, the despairing 
girls looking back down stream, striving to see in 
the dim light if perchance boats in pursuit might 
not be rounding the curve in the stream below. 

But the river’s quiet was unbroken save by the 
plash of the Indians’ paddles. The canoe glided 
swiftly on beneath a high wall of trap rock tower- 
ing high above it on the left . 1 The daylight 
grew brighter, and on the islands they passed the 

1 Rocky Mountain, in Greenfield. 


46 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

girls saw many wigwams, quiet now, for the in- 
habitants were not yet astir. A roaring sound 
was heard from up stream, growing louder as they 
paddled on. Rounding a bend in the river, the 
girls saw above them an impressive sight, the full 
flood of the Connecticut tumbling down forty feet 
or more over bold rocks in a fine natural waterfall, 
divided by a rocky islet around which the waters 
roared to their wild plunge. 

“ Peskeompskut,” they heard Wadnummin say. 

These then were the falls afar in the wilderness, 
of which they had often heard, but which they 
had never expected to see. With sad hearts, the 
girls realized how far they were from home. 
Around was only forest. No sound broke the 
silence save the mighty roar of the river as it 
poured over the rocks and foamed along the rapids 
below. 

The Indians ran the canoe up on a little sandy 
beach at the mouth of a small, sparkling stream 
entering the Connecticut on their left below the 
rapids . 1 Landing, and taking the canoe on their 
shoulders, with frequent glances back to be sure 
that their captives were closely following, the In- 
dians climbed a steep bank, and threading their 
way along a slight path through the woods, finally 
came out into a clearing on the sloping bank above 
the falls. 


1 Fall River. 













THE CAPTIVE GIRLS. 


47 


The early beams of the morning sun shone down 
on the Indian camp, where several squaws were at 
work, some bent over bringing wood on their 
backs for the fires, others heating smooth round 
stones from the river to be dropped into vessels of 
bark to heat the water, and thus boil their food ; 
others lugging water from the river in brass or 
iron kettles brought from pillaged English homes 
below. The men lounged idly on the ground, and 
a number of children ran and shouted at play with 
a sorry-looking dog. 

“ Ho ho ! Ho ho ! ” called Wadnummin and 
Petomanch in deep guttural tones, as they came 
in sight of the party thus camped by the river. 

“ Wadnummin and Petomanch have been even 
to the doors of the English at Norwottuck, and 
have brought back captive two of the little pale- 
faces,” announced Petomanch, as they drew near. 

“ Welcome, brothers,” said the Indians, not dis- 
playing in their faces, however, surprise, pleasure, 
or other emotion. Then one added, — 

“ We have slain a deer. Our brothers will stop 
and feast with us.” 

Indian etiquette would not permit the refusal 
of this invitation without offence, nor were 
Wadnummin and Petomanch, who now felt them- 
selves safe from pursuit, by any means reluctant 
to accept. Accordingly, Petomanch threw down 
his rabbit, that the squaws might add it to their 


48 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

stew, and he and Wadnummin sat down on the 
ground with the other Indians. 

The little girls, hand in hand, stood somewhat 
back from the fire, forlorn and homesick. But 
they were not long left alone, for some of the In- 
dian boys, spying them, ran up to enjoy the novel 
spectacle of two little English girls, dressed so 
differently from their own sisters, who were seen 
hovering about at a greater distance, clad only in 
a bit of deerskin or fragment of old blanket belted 
around their naked bodies. Their small, sharp 
black eyes peered through the black hair matted 
in tangles over their foreheads, as they chattered 
to each other and made comments on the two 
captives, whose white skins looked so strange and 
weak to Indian eyes. 

The bead-like eyes of the boys glistened through 
their shaggy locks like wild colts’. Had they 
spoken English, they would have said, “ Here is 
sport enough,” for they well knew that English 
captives were fair game. An Indian might do 
anything he pleased to them. 

“ Ho ho ! ” shouted one of the boys derisively, 
snatching off Prudence’s cap and putting it on 
his own head. 

“ Ho ho ! ” shouted all the boys rudely, as an- 
other snatched Submit’s cap and donned it, to the 
delight of his fellows. Others pulled off the girls’ 
shoes and, putting them on, danced about with un- 


THE CAPTIVE GIRLS. 


49 


gainly antics. The stockings, too, were roughly 
pulled off and thrown contemptuously back to the 
little Indian girls, who laughed much at the white 
girls’ strange array, as they pulled these queer 
things on over their tawny feet and legs, as bare 
and sinewy as deers’. 

The girls dared not resist. They stood help- 
less ; but Submit, who was angry, whispered to 
Prudence, — 

“ Don’t cry, Pruda. Don’t let us please these 
young demons by crying, whatever they do.” 

And she stood with pale face but flashing eyes, 
looking angrily at their tormentors, who now 
began to dance around their victims with loud 
shouts and cries, — an imitation of the war-dance 
and scalp shouts of their fathers, a pastime which 
boded no good to the girls. For soon, excited by 
this dance, the boys began to pull the girls’ hair, 
to push and pinch and otherwise torment them, 
hopping around them, nearer and nearer, looking 
like so many imps. 

Prudence could not help crying when a boy 
twitched out a handful of her yellow hair, dancing 
about and waving it on high, crying, “ See my 
corn silk ! ” But whatever the boys did to Sub- 
mit, she only looked at them in proud silence. 

“ The black-eyed squaw is a brave,” cried one of 
the boys. “ Indian blood runs in her veins. But 
I will make her cry out.” 


50 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Running to the fire, he heated to a red coal the 
end of a long, sharp stick. Seeing this, his mates 
also ran to heat long sticks, charmed to share this 
new diversion. The first boy, returning to the 
girls, with insulting jeers thrust his red-hot stick 
upon one of Submits little bare feet. 

Now indeed Submit cried out, while the terrified 
Prudence uttered so piercing a shriek that it rose 
above the tumult, attracting the attention of Peto- 
manch and Wadnummin, who had been absorbed 
in telling the other Indians all they had observed 
of the English forces and movements in their re- 
cent scout and spying expedition into the enemy’s 
country. If the Indian fathers noticed at all what 
their sons were doing, they simply felt pleased to 
see them show so early a proper spirit of true 
manliness, and hatred of the despised English. 

Petomanch rose hastily, an angry look on his 
dark face. Striding towards the group of chil- 
dren, the wild boys scattering and flying at his 
approach like dry leaves before a wintry blast, he 
said sternly, — 

“Petomanch’s captives belong to Petomanch. 
Let none dare lay hands on the slaves of Peto- 
manch till Petomanch speaks the word.” 

Wadnummin made the Indian children restore 
the girls’ shoes, saying to Petomanch, — 

“ English feet no good. Soft, not tough like 
Indians’ feet.” 



THE CAPTIVE GIRLS. 


51 


The Indians now brought their captives near 
the fire, where they could keep an eye upon them. 
Submit and Prudence felt so grateful for their 
escape* from their tormentors that they almost 
liked their captors for the moment. But Sub- 
mits shoe hurt her burned foot, and she limped 
painfully. 

A gentle-faced squaw, who was cutting up ven- 
ison to boil, noticed this. The squaw had a little 
girl of her own about the age of the captives, a 
plump, rather pretty little red-skinned girl, who 
kept near her mother, shyly watching these strange 
pale-faced children from afar. 

Perhaps some dim thought came to the squaw 
of her own feelings, were her child torn from her, 
to suffer in captivity. Saying something to Wad- 
nummin and Petomanch, to which they grunted 
assent, she motioned the children to follow her. 
Faces speak the same language in all races and 
climes. The squaw’s kind face said so plainly, “ I 
am sorry for you, I would help you,” that the 
girls did not hesitate to follow her into a wigwam 
near by. 

Seating them on a soft bearskin spread on the 
ground, the squaw brought a gourd full of cold 
water, motioning Submit to bathe her suffering 
foot. Lovingly did Prudence help her friend. 
The cold water relieved the smarting burn, draw- 
ing out the fire. 


52 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

The thankful girls were glad indeed to be in the 
safe shelter of the wigwam. Presently the squaw 
came again, bringing some leaves, which she 
crushed a little to soften. After binding them 
gently on the burn, she returned to her work, 
leaving Submit feeling much more comfortable. 

When they were alone, Prudence cried out, — 

“ Oh, Submit, I shall die, I know I shall ! I 
cannot bear this dreadful life.” 

Submit had known more trouble in her short 
life than Prudence. The bound girl was inured to 
hardship that the tenderly cherished daughter of 
a- loving home knew not. 

“ Pruda,” she said, “ I know full well we can 
bear what we think impossible. When my dear 
daddy came back no more, and I knew that I must 
go to live always with a strange, hard-faced woman, 
I too said, 4 1 cannot bear it, I shall die.’ But never- 
theless I have lived on. I think we must try to 
trust in our Heavenly Father, that He will yet 
come to our rescue. Canst not fasten thy thoughts 
on that ? ” 

“ Yea,” said Pruda, “ I verily believe that God 
sees and watches o’er us, for my dear father and 
mother have oft taught me so. But I cannot feel 
any hope. My heart lieth in me like a stone.” 

“ I feel hope, I know not why,” said Submit. 
“ But something within me here,” she said, laying 
her hand on her heart, “ bids me be of good cour- 


THE CAPTIVE GIRLS. 


53 


age and faint not. Let us try to hope, dear Pruda, 
for to hope keepeth up our spirits, and maketli our 
lot easier to bear.” 

“ I will try,” said Pruda, mournfully. 

The venison stew with corn being now cooked, 
the feast was in noisy progress outside. The 
wooden bowls of the men were filled over and over 
again by the squaws from the steaming kettles, it 
being a point of honor at a feast that each should 
eat to the last degree of satiety. Only when the 
braves had finished, were the squaws and children 
at liberty to eat the remnant left. 

By and by the friendly squaw lifted the skin 
hanging over the entrance to her wigwam, bring- 
ing two bowls full of the stew to the girls, who, 
having eaten little supper and no breakfast, were 
faint and weak with hunger. They ate so heartily 
that the squaw, well pleased, refilled their bowls, 
saying, as she brought them again, something 
which, if the girls could have understood, was, — 

“ Eat, my little ones, while there is plenty. To- 
morrow there may be nothing.” 

Soon the girls were summoned by their captors 
to go on. They hated to leave the squaw, who 
now seemed a real friend. 

“ Thank you again and again, kind squaw,” 
said Prudence, shaking the squaw’s hand. The 
squaw understood the language of Prudence’s 
grateful look if not of her tongue. 


54 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Submit, who had seen squaws in Hadley make 
this gesture in sign of thanks for kindness received, 
took the squaw’s dark hand and pressed it to her 
heart. 

The squaw looked pleased, and said to one of 
the boys who came lurking about to see if possibly 
a chance might not yet offer to torment the cap- 
tives, “ Me duck you in the river.” 

Whereat the boy scampered away, much to the 
girls’ relief. 

While the Indians were launching their canoe, 
the girls hastily improved this first opportunity to 
wash their faces and hands since leaving home, 
drying them on their dress skirts. Then they 
were forced to again sit down in the hated canoe, 
to set off for a farther journey into the dreary 
northern wilderness, whither they knew not. The 
Indians pulled hard at the paddles against the 
strong current trying to bear their canoe down 
over the falls, and Peskeompskut was soon left 
behind. 


CHAPTER IV. 


ON THE NORTHWARD TRAIL. 

P RUDENCE and Submit no longer felt the same 
shuddering terror of their captors as at first, 
especially since their rescue from their tormentors. 
Nor had the Indians shown themselves cruelly dis- 
posed as yet. Revived too by the warm food and 
the washing of their faces, the girls really felt in 
better heart than they would have dreamed pos- 
sible the night before. 

Prudence whispered to Submit, as the canoe 
glided up the river in the bright autumnal sun- 
shine streaming down, — 

“ I too begin to feel hope in my heart.' ’ 

“ Verily, I rejoice. I know we shall yet be res- 
cued," said Submit, her eyes shining. “ Thou wilt 
see. Rescue may not be speedy, but it will come." 

The girls were hardly in condition to notice, 
much less admire, the beauty of the scene around. 
Absorbed in their own trouble, wondering what 
fate awaited them, their eyes were blind to the 
broad, bright river, whose clear waters imaged 
faithfully the yellow branches and slender trunks 
of the white birches leaning far over the stream, 


56 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

the deep blue of the sky, and the white clouds 
that now and then floated across. Their sad eyes 
took little note of the meadows still green as sum- 
mer, making more brilliant by contrast the incred- 
ible glow of gorgeous color in the autumn forest 
everywhere covering hill and upland. 

As the canoe glided swiftly on, the solitude was 
unbroken by the appearance of even one human 
being. They saw a herd of deer coming down a 
path well worn by their feet to the river’s edge, 
then turning and leaping away into the forest 
at scent of their enemy, from afar, ere the arrows 
sent flying after them could reach their aim. 

But better fortune attended the hunters later. 
Rounding a bend in the stream, they came suddenly 
upon a fine doe starting to swim across, her fawn 
close at her heels. Both Indians sent arrows fly- 
ing. The wounded doe fell in the stream. Wad- 
nummin plunged in and finished her with his 
knife, while the terrified fawn bounded away into 
the woods. 

“ Thinkest thou, Submit,” whispered Prudence, 
“that God careth for creatures?” 

“ Good Granny Allison hath oft told me that 
He careth for every creature He hath made,” 
answered Submit. “ If he careth for sparrows, 
why not for the poor motherless little fawn ? ” 

“Yet I can but pity the poor little creature,” 
said Prudence, tears filling her eyes. 


ON THE NORTHWARD TRAIL. 57 

“ ’T is a sore trial to be motherless,” said Submit 
sadly. 

While the girls thus talked in low tones, the 
Indians, having run the canoe to shore, were busy 
flaying and dressing their game for greater con- 
venience in carrying. Working with a skill born 
of much practice, it was not long ere they loaded 
the skin and quarters of venison into the canoe, 
settling it well down in the water. 

The canoe, sent on with renewed speed after 
this halt, lay low in the water under the shadow 
of the high bank, gliding silently along, the dip of 
the paddles not distinguishable from the ripple of 
the river against obstructing rocks or stones. Thus 
it came unnoticed upon a flock of wild turkeys 
feeding on acorns under a huge oak standing alone 
in a meadow near the shore. 

Quicker than thought the Indians’ arrows flew, 
and a large gobbler dropped ere the rest of the 
flock disappeared as if swallowed up by the 
ground. Not a turkey was to be seen where an 
instant before there had been a dozen. The 
Indians were pleased to add the big turkey to the 
canoe’s load. 

The sun sank lower and lower, and long 
shadows falling over the river made it seem dark 
and lonely. The air grew damp and chilly. A 
faint skim of fog began to rise from the river, and 
float in white threads over the meadows. 


THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


The girls’ hearts sank with the sinking sun. 
Were they again to spend the night camping on the 
river’s bank ? 

“ I dread to see night come/’ whispered Pru- 
dence. 

“ And I too,” said Submit, her high courage 
waning with the sun. 

The sun set, but still the Indians pushed on, 
until they reached the mouth of a large brook 1 
emptying into the Connecticut at their right. 
The Indians ran the canoe a little way up this 
brook, the light vessel even when loaded not 
drawing half a foot of water. Unloading the 
canoe, they lifted it from the water, and carrying 
it up the bank, carefully hid it and the paddles 
under some low-growing bushes. 

To the girls’ surprise, Petomanch laid the large 
turkey over Prudence’s shoulder, while Wad- 
nummin gave Submit a huge piece of venison to 
carry in like fashion. These would have been 
heavy for the girls at any time ; but now, weak 
with fatigue, fright, and lack of food, they stag- 
gered beneath the seemingly impossible loads. 
Yet they dared not anger their stern masters by 
objecting, but bending over under such unaccus- 
tomed burdens, struggled on in the rough footpath 
as best they could behind the Indians. 

It was nearly dark. Beyond and above them 
1 Mill Brook, Northfield. 


ON THE NORTHWARD TRAIL. 


59 


the girls saw lights glimmering through the dark- 
ness. With anxious hearts they wondered what 
fortune awaited them. They realized that they 
could not much longer hold out ; Submit especially, 
with her lame foot, feeling each step to be the 
last. 

Finally they reached a steep, high bank. Try- 
ing to ascend this, the girls slipped, and Submit 
fell. The Indians, seeing that the girls could not 
get up the hill, took their burdens themselves, 
Petomanch growling, — 

“'Ugh ! English squaws lazy. No good.” 

The bank ascended, they saw before them a 
large Indian camp. A fire burned in the centre of 
the space surrounded by wigwams, and dark forms 
were seen moving around its blaze. Petomanch 
and Wadnummin now gave the usual salute or call. 

“ Ho ho ! Ho ho ! Ho ho ! ” 

Several Indians ran to meet them, carrying 
blazing strips of bark high aloft as torches. 

Again Petomanch recited his triumph. 

, “ Petomanch and Wadnummin have been even 
to the door of the English houses on our old camp- 
ing-ground at Norwottuck and brought away cap- 
tive two English squaws.” 

“ Wadnummin and Petomanch bring with their 
captives sweet deer and turkey meat,” added 
Wadnummin. 

Triumphant shouts rang out, and more Indians 


60 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

gathered around, staring with savage joy at Sub- 
mit and Prudence, huddling together, gazing in 
terror at the dark, fierce faces lit up by the flicker- 
ing torchlight. Had the dreaded moment come ? 
Would they now be given up to torture ? 

But Wadnummin and Petomanch had other 
plans. Unless when on the war-path, or when a 
captive child growing ill or weak on a journey 
became a hindrance, the Indians were rarely dis- 
posed to kill or torture children. Their captors 
hoped possibly to obtain sometime a good ransom 
for the girls. Meantime they would make useful 
slaves ; and if they grew up in the tribe, becom- 
ing finally Indian squaws To marry Indians, so 
much the better. It was the Indian habit by 
adopting young captives to build up their tribe 
and replenish their numbers, wasted as they con- 
stantly were by war and disease. 

A timid, meek-looking squaw had come running 
at sound of Petomanch’s call. Towards her he 
pushed the shrinking Prudence, saying, — 

“ Lo, Petomanch brings you a servant to fetch 
wood and water.” 

Prudence was alarmed to see that she was to be 
separated from Submit, and Submit tried to follow 
her friend as the squaw pulled her along towards 
her own wigwam. But Wadnummin seized Sub- 
mit as his property, handing her over to a tall 
squaw, saying, — 


ON THE NORTHWARD TRAIL. 


61 


“ Take the little pale-faced squaw. She is a 
brave. She will make a good Indian when the 
white blood is washed from her veins.” 

The Indian camp had been short of food. The 
return of Petomanch and Wadnummin with game 
was therefore proper occasion for a feast. The 
squaws hastened to bring water and put the 
venison boiling, and before it was half cooked, 
the hungry warriors gathered around the fire and 
, stuffed themselves to repletion, their squaws wait- 
ing humbly upon them, but not venturing to taste 
food until the warriors, unable at last to swallow 
another mouthful, lay back on the ground smoking 
the pipes which their wives filled and brought 
them, singing in loud, monotonous tone in time to 
the beating of an Indian drum. 

The wigwams which were to be the children’s 
future homes were built of poles, the large end 
stuck in the ground, the more slender tops bent 
over and tied together at the top with strips of 
tough walnut bark. This framework of poles was 
covered with mats woven of rushes, or the skins of 
wild beasts, a small opening being left at the top 
of the wigwam for the escape of smoke. There 
was no door, only a skin or mat hanging loose 
over the entrance hole. 

Skins dressed with the hair on were spread on 
the ground. These were the only beds, as the 
girls found, when, the feast being over, the men, 


62 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

v 

women, and children belonging to each wigwam 
crowded into it, lying down on the ground, their 
feet to the centre, their heads to the outside, rest- 
ing on rolls of skin or other possessions. 

Among such groups Submit and Prudence were 
forced to lie down. Small wonder is it that their 
prayers were said with tears rolling down the pale 
cheeks, and strong cryings to God for help and 
deliverance, or that they long watched with wist- 
ful eyes the stars twinkling down on them through 
the opening in the wigwam’s top, the stars that 
even then were shining on the peaceful roofs of 
Hadley houses, so far, far away. 

They slept at last from sheer exhaustion, but 
often woke, disturbed by their bedfellows on either 
side. In these cramped quarters, if one turned 
over, it was necessary for the person lying next 
also to turn. Towards morning they slept more 
heavily. 

Prudence was rudely wakened by some one pull- 
ing her feet. Starting up in alarm, she found that 
it was Moluntha, a boy of ten, son of Petomanch, 
who w r as pulling her roughly about. He ran out 
his tongue, making ugly grimaces, shouting, — 

“ Get up, lazy English squaw ! Go to your 
work, pale-faced slave.” 

Prudence understood his tone, if not the words. 
She saw that Petomanch and other men — his 
kindred, she judged — were still stretched on the 


ON THE NORTHWARD TRAIL. 63 

skins fast asleep. But the squaws, big and little, 
had all gone, though it was yet barely dawn. 

Prudence gladly hurried out of the wigwam, 
while Moluntha lay down for another nap, prom- 
ising himself rare sport by and by with the 
English captive. Outside, Prudence stopped a 
moment, drawing in long breaths of the fresh 
morning air, and eagerly looking about to learn if 
possible where she might be. 

She found that the camp was on a high plateau, 
sloping abruptly on one side to a long meadow, 
whence the rising sun was dissipating the night 
fog. On the opposite side the plateau sloped more 
gently towards a high, wooded range of mountains. 
Below the encampment on the north ran a large 
brook, the brook whose mouth they had entered 
the night before. Cellar holes, blackened as by 
fire, yawned among the wigwams, and around them 
stretched a waste of half-burned posts and stakes, 
as of a palisade. The trees still standing stretched 
out bare, scorched arms, ghastly to see ; but still 
more ghastly were the scalps and skulls that were 
stuck up on sticks as ornaments before many of 
the wigwams. 

While quickly observing these surroundings, 
Prudence saw Submit toiling up the hill from the 
brook, tugging a big kettle full of water. Prudence 
joyfully ran down to meet her friend. 

Throwing her arms around Submit, she kissed 
her fondly. 


64 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Oh, my dear Submit,” she cried, “ it fills 
my heart with gladness to lay eyes again on 
thee ! ” 

“ It seemeth a year since I saw thee last,” said 
Submit, warmly returning her friend’s embrace. 

“ Let me help thee,” said Prudence, grasping 
the kettle’s bale. 

“ Canst believe it, Pruda ? This is Squakeag ! ” 1 
said Submit. “ Is it not fearful to think we are 
so far away in the wilderness ? ” 

“ Then that is what the burned ruins mean,” 
said Prudence. •“ ’T is horrible to think on ! But 
perchance worshipful Major Pynchon will be send- 
ing troopers up here to fight the Indians, and so 
we may speedily be rescued.” 

“ I pray we may,” said Submit. “ But oh, 
Pruda, what thinkest thou ? Dost remember old 
Awonusk who was wont ere the war to sell her 
baskets in Hadley ? ” 

“ I remember her well,” said Prudence. 

“ She is here,” said Submit. “ She is the mother 
of Wadnummin, and sleeps in his wigwam. She 
can speak a little English. She saith I was kind 
to her when she called at Widow Burnham’s with 
her baskets, and she will help me. She will make 
Osawshequah, my stern mistress, treat me more 
kindly. All the Indians hearken when old Awo- 
nusk speaks.” 


1 Northfield. 


ON THE NORTHWARD TRAIL, 65 

“ I am glad for thee. I know not the name of 
my mistress yet,” said Prudence. 

She was soon to learn, for Petomanch’s squaw 
appeared in the distance, evidently looking for her 
little slave. The squaw seemed displeased because 
Prudence was so late in coming to work, and seiz- 
ing the child’s hand, pulled her along towards one 
of the fires blazing in the midst of the camp. As 
they walked on, the squaw, placing her hand on 
her own breast, and looking significantly at 
Prudence, said earnestly, — 

“ Wampanosea, Wampanosea.” 

Prudence pointed back at the squaw, asking, — 
“ W ampanosea ? W ampanosea ? ” 

The squaw nodded, looking pleased that her 
little servant had so quickly understood her name. 
Then she put her hand on Prudence’s head, saying 
emphatically, — 

“ Kippenoquah, Kippenoquah.” 

Prudence in her turn nodded to signify that she 
understood this to be her Indian name. 

“ Kippenoquah ” meant corn tassel or silk. 
Wampanosea had given Prudence this name on 
account of her yellow hair, the silky, golden hair, 
so sadly matted and tangled now, that Pruda’s 
mother had loved to comb and smooth and plait, 
though oft feeling in her heart that her delight in it 
might be a subtle temptation of Satan, the tempter 
ever lying in wait to ensnare Puritan souls. 


66 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Wampanosea motioned Prudence to sit down on 
a log. She then took the turkey, not cooked the 
previous night, and pouring boiling water over it 
from a kettle hanging on a pole which rested on 
two crotched sticks over the fire, she brought the 
dripping, soggy bird to Prudence, signifying that 
she must pull out the feathers and put them in 
the basket beside her. 

This task was little to Prudence’s liking, but 
she knew she must not refuse. She held the wet, 
heavy bird and pulled off the feathers as' best she 
could, wondering meantime what Wampanosea 
meant to do with them. Later she could not help 
admiring a cape or mantle made from the glossy 
feathers of wild birds, ingeniously woven together 
with a sort of network by Wampanosea. 

The squaws and girls large enough to help were 
all astir and at work. Prudence caught glimpses 
of Submit working about another fire in the dis- 
tance, under the directions of a cross-looking 
squaw, whom she supposed to be Osawshequah. 

“ I like Wampanosea far better,” thought 
Prudence. 

When the turkey was plucked clean, Wampano- 
sea gave Prudence a brass kettle, — a kettle 
brought up from Hadley on horseback, which not 
long ago had swung in the fireplace of the garrison 
house at Squakeag, — and told her by signs to fill 
it at the brook. 


ON THE NORTHWARD TRAIL. 


67 


When Prudence slowly toiled up the steep hill, 
bending over under the weight of the kettle, she 
found Wampanosea cutting up the turkey to boil 
it with some pieces of venison still left. She 
now set Prudence to shelling corn to add to the 
broth. 

As Prudence rubbed her ears of corn together, 
she saw Moluntha creeping towards her, a long 
switch in his hand. Jumping up, tipping over her 
birch vessel of corn, Prudence ran to Wampanosea, 
pulling her arm, and looking up to her implor- 
ingly, as she pointed to Moluntha. 

Wampanosea said sternly to Moluntha, — 

“ Begone, thou slippery one. Trouble not Kip- 
penoquah. She works for me.” 

Moluntha ran away, and Prudence settled down 
to work again. But suddenly, when all seemed 
safe, a slashing blow from the switch cut across 
her bare ankles. Moluntha had simply slipped 
around the wigwam and come upon her slyly from 
behind. The switch was raised for another blow, 
and Prudence cried out. 

Wampanosea, without a word, rushed swiftly to 
Moluntha, seized him before he could run, bore 
him, kicking and struggling, down the hill, and 
soused him in the brook, holding his head under 
the water by his hair until at last he gladly 
promised to behave, when Wampanosea returned 
to her work as if nothing had happened. 


68 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

The dripping Moluntha slunk away to hide some- 
where from the other boys until dry, and the 
grateful Prudence thought, — 

“Verily, I like Wampanosea, though she be an 
Indian.” 


CHAPTER Y. 


LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS. 

W HEN the stew was done, Prudence had to 
help wait on the lazy warriors lolling at 
their ease around the fires, filling often the bowls 
neatly cut out of maple wood, until but little broth 
was left at last for the women and girls. Prudence 
had a few spoonfuls only. Seeing Submit not far 
off, Prudence ventured to go to her. Passing a wig- 
wam, she noticed what seemed a sick old squaw, 
sitting huddled in a heap at its entrance, moaning 
and muttering to herself. 

As Prudence passed, to her surprise she heard 
the old squaw say “ Ellis.” Stopping to look at 
her more closely, Prudence recognized old Onomoa, 
whom she had often seen in the Wells’s kitchen 
when visiting her friend Mary Wells. Overjoyed 
to see a famil ar face, one associated with home, 
even an old squaw’s, Prudence ran up to her, 
crying, — 

“ Netop, Onomoa, netop. Dost not know me ? 
I am little Prudence Ellis of Hadley.” 

“ Onomoa knows well,” said the old squaw, who 
could speak a little English. Then looking dimly 


70 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

up at the little girl with her bleared eyes, shaking 
her head mournfully, she said, — 

“ Kind Good wife Ellis cry ; cry bitter tears.” 

Prudence began to cry at this ; but old Ono- 
moa’s mind wandered back to her own sorrows, 
as she muttered, — 

“ Onomoa cry much. Onomoa’s brave gone. 
Onomoa’s sons all killed. Everything gone. 
Onomoa sits alone. But ere another moon Onomoa 
go away.” 

“You look too ill to journey, poor Onomoa,” 
said Prudence. “ Whither would you go ? ” 

“Onomoa go many arrow 'flights away, to the 
happy hunting-ground, far beyond the setting 
sun,” said Onomoa, pointing toward the west 
with a longing look, then huddling back again 
into her blanket’s folds. 

With saddened heart, Prudence hastened to 
Submit, who ran to meet her, saying, — 

“ Prudence, Osawshequah hath given me an 
Indian name, and Awonusk told me the meaning. 
’T is Maconoquah, and it meaneth young bear ! I 
like it not. ’T is worse than Submit.” 

“I too have an Indian name. I am glad I 
know not its meaning,” said Prudence. ‘<’Tis 
Kippenoquah.” 

“ Gibberish, heathen gibberish,” said Submit. 
“Osawshequah is a strict mistress. There she 
cometh now. I must haste to wait on her, or she 


LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS. 71 

will beat me. But I have a plan, Prudence. I 
will tell thee the first time we can get together.” 

A large body of Indians was collected at Squa- 
keag. Many wigwams were scattered along the 
pleasant upland where the settlement had once 
stood. The girls recognized among these Indians 
Sanchumachu, chief of the Norwottucks, Wutta- 
wam, Womscom, Nausliapee, and others whom 
they had often seen on Hadley street in the 
happy days of old. The savages were evidently 
in fine spirits, elated by the successes already won, 
and eagerly anticipating still greater victories over 
the hated English, even to their total extermina- 
tion in the Connecticut Valley. 

In the course of a day or two, food again run- 
ning short, many of the Indians started off on a 
grand hunting expedition. They scattered in dif- 
ferent directions, into the hills and mountains to 
the north, east, and across the river, or west. 

. Prudence was taken out with her mistress and 
other squaws, to help dig holes in the hillside 
overlooking the meadow, — holes whose use she 
could not imagine ; later she learned they were 
designed for the winter storehouses, called by the 
settlers “ Indian barns.” 

Wampanosea had a young baby. It was bound 
with strips of cloth to a thin board. While Wam- 
panosea worked about the fire, the board was 
leaned up against a tree at one side out of the 


72 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


way. A piece of thin wood bent in shape of a 
half hoop was fastened to the top of the board, 
projecting about four inches from the child’s fore- 
head, thus saving the head from injury should the 
board chance to tumble over. At first the pap- 
poose was quiet, apparently too accustomed to this 
treatment to object. But by and by, hungry per- 
haps, it set up a sturdy cry. 

Wampanosea motioned Prudence to care for the 
pappoose. Prudence, sorry for the little creature, 
— “ It cannot help being a poor little pappoose,” 
she thought, — took it up tenderly, and would 
have undone its bonds. 

“No, no,” cried Wampanosea, running to the 
rescue. She showed Prudence how to rock the 
board to and fro, thus finally soothing the pap- 
poose to sleep, when the board was laid down 
under the tree. 

Prudence had sometimes seen squaws in Hadley 
street with their pappooses on their backs, hang- 
ing by strong bands of deerskin passing around 
the mothers’ foreheads. But she was surprised to 
see Wampanosea and the other squaws go to their 
work carrying their pappooses in this way, and 
thus burdened, falling to digging on the hillside. 
Prudence was given a sharp flat stone and set to 
digging earth down the sides of a hole almost 
five feet deep and three feet broad, Wampano- 
sea throwing the earth out with a broad piece of 


LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS. 73 

bark as Prudence loosened it. When the hole was 
large enough to hold about a hogshead of corn, 
Wampanosea left it, and started a new hole near 
by. The pappoose began to cry. In spite of her 
aching hands and back, Prudence could not help 
being amused to see Wampanosea stop work, and 
fall to singing and dancing until the pappoose on 
her back was soothed and fell asleep again. 

Submit had been taken by her mistress with 
other squaws to the forest on the east mountain 
for a supply of firewood. She wondered that the 
boys were not set at this work. But work was 
considered degrading by the Indians, fit only for 
squaws and girls. The son of a brave, the future 
warrior, must not degrade himself by working like 
a squaw. Fighting and hunting were the only 
occupations fit for men. Some of the older boys 
had gone to the hunt with the men ; of the 
younger, some had gone down to the Connecticut 
fishing, others into the woods to examine the traps 
they had set for small game. 

Some of the younger boys were shouting and 
running up and down the open space among the 
wigwams, playing football with a round white 
object which they sent flying high in the air with 
their vigorous kicks. Seeing Submit passing by 
with the squaws bearing their axes, they laughed ; 
and one shouted gleefully, as he gave the ball 
another kick ; — 


74 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Englishman ! Englishman ! ” 

Then Submit saw that their football was a skull, 
doubtless the skull of a slain settler of Squakeag. 
Shuddering, she hurried past ; the boys, delighted 
with her look of horror, shouting merrily as they 
tried to kick the skull after her. 

One of the squaws had an English axe found at 
Squakeag. The others had only Indian axes made 
of sharpened stones, some handleless, some bound 
fast with bark withes to wooden handles. With 
these the squaws hacked, mangled, and tore saplings, 
until they could seize the top and break the trunk 
off. Sometimes the fortunate sister with the axe 
came to their aid, if the tree were larger or tougher 
than usual. 

Osawshequah soon found that Submit’s slender 
hands and strength were absolutely unequal to 
this severe work ; so, drawing a knife from her belt, 
she showed Submit how to peel the stout bark 
from the walnut and elm saplings. These strips 
were used to bind the wood into fagots or bundles 
with which the squaws loaded their backs when a 
large pile was cut. Submit toiled back to camp, her 
back bent like the squaws’ under all the wood she 
could possibly carry, only to return for another 
load. 

The day wore on, and still there were no signs of 
another meal. When Prudence’s strength gave 
out at digging, Wampanosea set her to shelling 


LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS. 


75 


corn, which the squaws had raised in considerable 
quantity on the fertile meadows of Squakeag. All 
was not yet harvested. When Prudence had 
shelled corn until her fingers were sore and her 
wrists ached, Wampanosea gave her eight kernels 
to eat. Prudence partly parched them at the fire, 
and thankfully munched the dry kernels, glad to 
relieve even a little her faintness. 

Awonusk had interceded at last for the tired 
Submit. She was allowed to follow Awonusk into 
the wigwam, Awonusk saying kindly, — 

“Maconoquah much tired. Maconoquah help 
Awonusk.’ ’ 

The old squaw was making moccasins out of 
moose-skin. She gave Submit a piece of skin 
rudely cut in shape, a slender bone to be used as a 
needle, thread made from hemp by Awonusk her- 
self, and told her to embroider the moccasin with 
beads, like one Awonusk had finished. 

Submit was thankful for the quiet work away 
from the tiresome, confusing chatter of the squaws 
which she could not understand. Still more 
thankful was she when Awonusk, after pounding 
some corn in a wooden mortar made from the 
stump of a tree hollowed out, moistened the coarse 
meal into a little cake, which she partially baked 
between two hot stones, giving Submit a piece. 

Towards night the hunters began to return. 
One had brought down a deer, but most had only 


76 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

smaller game, — a wolf, a turkey, a few partridges. 
In truth, game was growing scarce in the vicinity of 
Squakeag, and the hunters were obliged to range 
farther and farther each day to find necessary food 
for so large a camp. Soon it would be necessary 
to break camp, and seek fresh hunting-grounds. 

Petomanch came home late at night, but in high 
good humor, shouting, as he neared the camp, — 
“ Ho ho ! Ho ho ! Ho ho ! Petomanch brings a 
good fat bear ! Bear meat sweet. Bear fat good. ,, 

In the dusk could be seen a large bear hanging 
from a pole between the shoulders of Petomanch 
and Wadnummin, shot, Petomanch said, pointing 
to the east, “ afar on the great mountain.” 1 

There was gladness over the bear, and the 
squaws fell busily to work skinning and preparing 
the game, big and small. 

Night brought the boys trooping back, some 
bringing strings of fish dangling on willow wands, 
some squirrels or wild birds brought down by their 
arrows, already skilful. Moluntha was puffed up 
with pride. The Great Spirit had smiled on him. 
He had found in his trap a wullaneag . 2 The 
wullaneag was a fierce animal. This one, although 
its leg was broken, fought savagely, and Moluntha’s 
torn and bleeding hands showed that the struggle 
had been severe. 

This success, far beyond that achieved by any of 

1 Mount Grace, Warwick. 2 a black wildcat. 


LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS. 77 

the other boys, greatly exalted Moluntha in his 
own opinion. 

“ Moluntha great hunter,” he said, as he threw 
his wullaneag down on the ground in his father’s 
best manner, casting a glance at Prudence, who 
had so lately seen him ignominiously ducked. 

Wampanosea took his hand with an exclamation 
of pity, and evidently wished to bind it up with 
soothing leaves. But Moluntha loftily rejected 
this womanish sympathy, saying, — 

“ Moluntha no pappoose. Moluntha a hunter. 
No care for these little scratches. Moluntha a 
brave. Go to war before many moons ; bring back 
many English scalps.” 

And Moluntha swaggered proudly away, casually 
to let the other boys, the unlucky boys who had 
only brought home fish or squirrels, see his bleed- 
ing hands. His mother laughed, looking after 
him with fond eyes, proud of her manly boy. 

“ She loveth him as much as my mother doth 
John,” thought Prudence, wonderingly. 

Late in the evening another feast was held, food 
being now so plenty, with singing, dancing, and 
story-telling. When at last Submit and Prudence 
were given pieces of roasted bear’s meat, it tasted 
most delicious to the hungry girls, even though 
they were forced to eat it without salt, gnawing 
off pieces as best they could, holding the chunks 
in their hands. 


78 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

They had gone off by themselves back of the 
wigwams, on the brow of the hill sloping to the 
meadow. It was restful only to be alone with each 
other, away from the tumultuous noise around the 
fire. 

“ I dare not run down to the brook and wash 
my hands,” said Prudence, when they had finished 
eating. 

“ Nor I,” said Submit. “ They will see us, and 
set us at work again. We must e’en wipe our 
hands on our hair like the squaws. Perchance 
’t will help us get out some of the tangles.” 

“ Submit, what is the plan you spoke of ? ” asked 
Prudence. “ Cannot you tell me now ? ” 

Submit looked cautiously all about, peeping 
behind bushes, and into the empty wigwam nearest 
them. From the distance where the firelight 
flickered, rose a wild sound of shouting and singing. 
The young moon, low in the west, cast a faint light 
over the valley below, and showed Submit’s great 
dark eyes shining with her resolve. 

“ ’T is this,” she whispered, close in Prudence’s 
ear. “ We must run away.” 

“ Submit ! ” exclaimed Prudence. “ What would 
become of us, in the forest among the wild beasts ? 
We should starve to death, e’en if they ate us not.” 

“ As well be eaten by wild beasts as tarry here 
among these savages. We cannot bear this life. 
It will kill us.” 











































































« 








* 
















































- 











9 





LIFE AMONG THE INDIANS. 


79 


u How could we find the way ? ” queried timid 
Prudence, her heart beating fast with fear only at 
thought of such a daring step. 

“ Yon runs the great river, the Connecticut, that 
flows around Hadley/’ said Submit, pointing down 
across the meadow where a border of trees and 
shrubs and a line of rising fog showed the river’s 
bed. “ We have but to follow the river down, and 
it will bring us home. Verily, I ne’er thought it 
would gladden me to lay eyes on Widow Burnham 
again ! ” 

Prudence could not help smiling at this ; Submit, 
cheered by warm food and by even the thought of 
escaping from the Indians, spoke in so droll a tone. 

“ I dare not venture on it, Submit,” said Prudence. 
“ I cannot do it.” 

“ Then think it not hard if I go alone, an I see 
a proper chance,^ said Submit. “ I am determined 
to try for our freedom. An I get safely to Hadley, 
I will tell where thou art, and Major Pynchon and 
Lieutenant Smith and the brave captains will come 
after thee, and fight the Indians and rescue thee.” 

“ Oh, Submit,” said Prudence, tearfully, “ I wish 
thou wouldst give up this rash plan ! Thou canst 
ne’er get home through all this weary wilderness.” 

“■An I see a good chance, I shall try it,” said 
Submit. “Pruda, thou knowest not the worst. 
The Indians mean to keep us with them always, 
and make us true squaws. Old Awonusk said to 


80 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

me to-day, when she was pleased with my bead 
work : 4 Maconoquah make good squaw. Macono- 
quah marry Norwottuck brave by and by ; big 
sachem, like Sanchumachu, or Metacom of the 
Wampanoags, maybe.’ Canst think of aught 
more dreadful?” 

44 I would jump into the river before I would 
marry a disgusting Indian,” said Prudence. 

44 So would I,” said Submit, 44 or let them burn 
me. That is the reason I must run away, and 
because — ” 

Here a loud uproar rose around the fires, alarm- 
ing the girls. 

44 They miss us and are wroth,” said Prudence, 


CHAPTER VI. 


AN INDIAN DOCTOR. 


H URRYING back to the fires, the girls found 
that the noise and excitement were caused 
by the appearance of two Indian messengers just 
arrived. One of these Indians was talking with 
animation, telling a tale that evidently greatly de- 
lighted the Squakeag Indians, who often ejaculated 
“ Ho, ho,” in sign of approval. 

The girls distinguished the familiar words, 
“ Northampton ” and “ Nonotuck.” While saying 
these words, the Indian messenger waved triumph- 
antly two human scalps, — one reddish brown in 
hue, one of darker color, — uttering the hideous 
scalp-yell, which was echoed by the whole crowd 
of warriors. 

“ ’T is plain they have slain some one at North- 
ampton,’' whispered Submit. “ But what other 
cruelty do they plan ? ” 

The messenger spoke with animation and many 
gestures, often pointing to the south. The anxious 
girls heard the words “ Agawam ” and “ Spring- 
field,” “ Wequogon ” and “ Metacom.” The Squa- 


82 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


keag Indians seemed much stirred by his talk. As 
he finished, the messenger threw down on the 
ground a belt of wampum and a tomahawk, his 
fellow adding two fine beaver-skins. 

Sanchumachu instantly picked these up, by ac- 
cepting their gifts signifying that he promised to 
do what the givers asked. The wampum belt he 
passed over to Mattawan, one of the sages or wise 
old men of the tribe, whose business it was to keep 
all the war-belts as records, and be able to in- 
terpret their significance whenever asked. The 
beaver-skins were handed to his squaw. The 
tomahawk he held in his hand, while he made a 
speech, brief and stately, but apparently most sat- 
isfactory both to the messengers and his own 
followers. 

This formality over, “ Come and eat ” was 
Sanchumachu’s concise invitation to the mes- 
sengers to share the feast. The messengers, who 
had run on a dog trot all day, breaking their fast 
only with a little nocake, needed no great urging. 

The feast was followed by a war-dance, to the 
music of a drum made by stretching a thin skin 
tightly over an earthen vessel, and a dried 
squash rattle filled with pebbles. 

Sanchumachu, brandishing the war-hatchet 
brought by the messengers, led the dancers, who, 
each grasping some weapon, bent half over, swing- 
ing their arms, followed each other in a circle 


AN INDIAN DOCTOR. 


83 


around the fire, wildly stamping the ground and 
going faster and faster as the excitement waxed 
furious. 

Then came the war-songs. Sanchumachu first 
chanted in loud, sing-song tone to the drum’s hollow 
tum-tum an account of his war exploits, often leap- 
ing high, and brandishing his tomahawk with fierce 
gestures, as he described some great deed he had 
either done or meant to do. During his song the 
other warriors kept up a loud, fierce chorus of “ he- 
uh, he-uh, he-uh ! ” As he danced and sang, he 
moved always with his face towards the south, the 
direction whither the coming expedition was bent. 

Sanchumachu stopped and threw down the war- 
hatchet. Petomanch instantly seized it, and 
brandished it with fierce gestures of scalping an 
enemy, as he sang, ending by striking a post stand- 
ing in the centre of the camp, called the war-post. 
Warrior after warrior in turn took up the toma- 
hawk, the war song and dance waxing ever more 
wild and furious. As the excitement increased, 
yet other warriors bounded into the circle, who had 
not at first intended going on the war-path. Wild 
shouts of joy greeted each reinforcement of the 
war band. At the close of the dance all stood 
erect, pointing their weapons to the south with a 
terrific war-whoop that made the girls’ hearts 
stand still with horror. 

It was a terrible scene to the two girls, — the 


84 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

band of Indians, their fierce red faces and glitter- 
ing black eyes lighted with thirst for blood and 
plunder, leaping and yelling in the firelight ; the 
dusky crowd of spectators encircling the dancers 
watching their performance with savage delight, 
and listening with joy to their promises of bloody 
deeds to be wrought on the hated English. 

“ I cannot bear it any longer,” whispered Pru- 
dence to Submit. “ It seemeth to me I can ne’er 
shut my eyes to sleep again without seeing these 
terrible faces.” 

The girls would have slipped away, but were 
called to help the squaws parch corn and pound it in 
mortars to the powder called nocake, as provision 
for the warriors on their march in the early morn. 

When at last they were free to go, Submit said 
to Prudence, as they went to their wigwams, — 

“ I am sure they plan to attack Springfield. And 
I know Sanchumachu spoke of scalping Major 
Pynchon, for I heard the name ‘ Pynchon,’ and 
then Sanchumachu brandished his tomahawk with 
a scalping gesture, and all the Indians shouted 
louder than ever.” 

“ I wish we had some way of warning the 
Springfield folk,” said Prudence. “But we are 
helpless. We cannot e’en help ourselves.” 

“ Unless we succeed in my plan,” said Submit. 

“ Hast not yet given up that wild plan ? ” asked 
Prudence. “ Dost not think, Submit, ’t were wiser 


AN INDIAN DOCTOR. 


85 


to wait God’s good time for our deliverance, rather 
than venture to run away into the fearsome wil- 
derness ? ” 

“ Sometimes God’s way of helping us is to make 
us help ourselves, Pruda,” said Submit. 

“ Thou hast such a venturesome spirit, Submit ! ” 
said Prudence. “ I dare not e’en dream of such a 
venture.” 

Early the next morning the warriors prepared 
themselves for going forth on the war-path, greas- 
ing faces and bodies with bear’s fat, and hideously 
painting themselves, each striving to make himself 
as frightful as possible to his enemies. 

What Major Pynchon might think if he chanced 
to see Petomanch in his war-paint is not known, 
but certainly Prudence was sadly terrified when, 
on waking, she saw his grim face peering into the 
wigwam, a band of blue color across his eyes, 
streaks of red dashed on his forehead, chest, and 
arms, and rays of white extending from his eyes 
down his cheeks and around his mouth. 

Prudence faintly screamed and hid her face on 
her bearskin, at which tribute to the awfulness of 
his appearance Petomanch looked pleased, as he 
strode off to join the band of warriors, who marched 
away to the south silently, in single file, slipping 
on as craftily as panthers towards the Agawam fort 
near Springfield, to join the Agawams and Philip’s 
Wampanoags in the attack planned on Springfield. 


86 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

The work of the day for the squaws and girls 
was dressing the skins of all the game brought in, 
and cutting up some of the bear’s meat in thin 
pieces for drying. The weather was now so cold 
that fires were kept burning day and night on the 
ground in the centre of the wigwams. The as- 
cending smoke only partly found exit at the open- 
ing left for it at the top, and the wigwams were 
therefore always smoky. Poles were fastened 
across the wigwam above the fires, and here 
strips of meat were hung to dry and cure in 
the heat and smoke. For the bear and deer 
skins the squaws made rude frames of birch 
poles tied together at the corners, on which 
they stretched the skins when properly prepared 
for drying, standing the frames upright close 
around a large fire burning in the centre of the 
camp. 

The girls were set to preparing some of the . 
smaller skins, squirrels’ and muskrats’, which 
when sew r ed together would make winter clothing 
for the squaws and children. The work was not 
congenial, but the girls had the comfort of being 
together while doing it. Even if they could not 
talk freely, each knew what the other felt and 
thought, and there was a sense of comfort in bear- 
ing hardships together. 

When chance offered, Submit whispered, — 

“ We may look out for somewhat strange to-day. 


AN INDIAN DOCTOR. 


87 


Old Onomoa is worse, and Awonusk saith they 
have sent for the medicine man to pow-wow o’er 
her this afternoon.” 

“ I hope we can see his doings,” said Prudence. 

Her wish was gratified, for in the afternoon 
work was suspended, and all the Indians left in 
camp gathered in and around the wigwam where 
Onomoa lay, to watch, and, if need be, assist 
Meiaskwat, the medicine man, in his arts. 

Meiaskwat, a middle-aged Indian dressed in 
strange fashion, carried himself with an air of 
dignity and mystery. All made way for him as 
he stalked majestically through the throng, look- 
ing neither to left nor right. He stood darkly 
towering above the old squaw lying on the ground, 
regarding her with a profound look. Then he 
stooped and breathed and blew upon her, mut- 
tering incantations. After some moments he 
stopped and regarded his patient. She seemed no 
better. 

“ Bad spirit in squaw. Make Onomoa sick. Me- 
iaskwSlt must ask his demon how to drive the 
spirit out,” said the medicine man. 

He withdrew a little distance by himself, and 
while the Indians regarded him with awe, took 
from his belt a pouch made from the skin of a 
moose’s head cured whole, save that the ears had 
been removed. Untying it, he took out a little 
box woven of basket work. 


88 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ It is the house of Meiaskwat’s Demon ! ” ex- 
claimed Awonusk, in awestruck tone. “ Onomoa 
much sick, bad devil in her, or Meiaskwat no take 
his Demon out of his house.” 

Opening the lid of the box, the door of his 
demon’s house, with great show of reverence 
Meiaskwat drew out a small, smooth black stone, 
wrapped in soft down, a stone he had found in the 
stomach of a slain elk. This was his demon or 
familiar spirit, upon whose powers he relied in all 
emergencies. Meiaskwat breathed and blew upon 
the stone, talking to it in low tones. Then he 
called for tobacco, and having with certain mystic 
ceremonies filled the stone bowl of the pipe he 
carried in his belt, its long reed stem decorated 
with bright feathers, he sat down cross-legged, and 
gravely blew tobacco smoke on the stone. 

The Indians nodded approvingly, well knowing 
that nothing was so grateful to the Great Spirit, 
the Great Demon, or any lesser Manitou, as the 
smoke of tobacco. 

The pipe smoked out, Meiaskwat held the stone 
to his ear, listening intently, while the other In- 
dians stood in reverent silence. Then he arose 
and announced, — 

“ The demon of Meiaskwat is pleased by the 
burning tobacco. He deigns to speak. He says 
very big devil in sick squaw. Must drive devil 
out.” 


AN INDIAN DOCTOR. 


89 


To the girls’ amazement, drums and rattles were 
brought, and any other instrument that could be 
beaten to make a noise, and howling, shrieking, 
screaming to the noise of these instruments, all 
hopped and danced around Onomoa or her wigwam, 
to frighten away the devil supposed to be in the 
sick woman. 

“ ’T is enough to kill a well squaw, let alone 
a sick one ! ” said, or rather shouted, Submit to 
Prudence amid the uproar. 

u I pray I may ne’er fall ill among the Indians,” 
said Prudence, looking on the wild scene in mingled 
fright and disgust. 

When the Indians at last stopped from sheer 
exhaustion, Meiaskwat departed, saying, — 

“Meiaskwat go home and dream to-night.” 

On Meiaskwat’s return in the morning, he pru- 
dently went into the wigwam and examined his 
patient before announcing his dream. He found 
her, strange to say, no better ; in fact, decidedly 
worse. He announced gravely, — 

“ Meiaskwat dream Onomoa stay but three days. 
In three days Onomoa goes to the spirits of her 
fathers in the happy hunting-grounds, beyond the 
sunset.” 

The Indians knew that dreams were true, and 
the news spread among them that Onomoa would 
die in three days. Meiaskwat had dreamed it. 

“ Canst believe it?” said Submit, when she and 


90 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Prudence chanced to meet at the brook where both 
had been sent for water. “ The squaws no longer 
give poor Onomoa any food ! Awonusk saith ’t is 
useless to feed her, for she must die in three 
days.” 

“ It is shameful ! ” said Prudence. 

That night when Wampanosea gave her a small 
cake of pounded corn baked between hot stones, 
though Prudence could easily have eaten three such 
cakes, so hungry was she, yet she saved a portion, 
and watching her opportunity, stole into the wig- 
wam where Onomoa lay alone. 

Kneeling beside her, Prudence pressed the bit of 
cake into her fevered hand, saying tenderly, — 

“Eat, poor Onomoa, eat. Cake make Onomoa 
strong and well.” 

Onomoa opened her eyes, looked bewildered at 
the little girl, then feebly pushed away the cake, 
saying, — 

“Little English squaw kind heart. But no good 
for Onomoa to eat. After two sunrisings, Onomoa 
goes far away, beyond the setting sun.” 

“ But perchance, if you eat, you will get well,” 
said Prudence. 

“ Onomoa goes gladly. Onomoa’s bones never 
ache in the happy hunting-ground. Onomoa will 
be young again there, dance, sing, play, see her 
sons again, follow her brave to the hunt and bring 
home his game. Onomoa — ” 


AN INDIAN DOCTOR. 


91 


The old squaw’s voice sank lower and lower, into 
an indistinct murmur, and she seemed so lost in 
visions of the happy land beyond the sunset as to 
be no longer conscious of Prudence’s presence. 

On the morning of the fourth day, lo, old Onomoa 
still lived. Meiaskwat was sent for. 

“ Very big devil in Onomoa,” he said. “ Devil 
no let her die. Must help her.” 

Fortunately the girls did not witness the closing 
scenes of Onomoa’s life. By Meiaskwat’s advice, 
icy water from the brook was poured on the 
patient’s bare stomach, to aid her departure. This 
treatment proved successful, and at last Onomoa 
rested from the labors of a hard life. 

When Awonusk told Submit about Onomoa’s 
end, Submit cried out, — 

“ ’T was cold-blooded murder ! ” 

“No, no,” said Awonusk, shaking her head ener- 
getically. “Englishmen no understand. Indians 
kind to Onomoa. Before another moon, the Indians 
leave this camp, and go far away to the great win- 
ter hunt. Onomoa too sick, can walk no more. 
Indians cannot carry sick Indians on long trail in 
the forest in the deep snow. The Indians drive 
devil out, and let Onomoa go in peace to the happy 
hunting-ground.” 

Notwithstanding the manner of Onomoa’s death, 
the usual mourning was made for her. The squaws 
disfigured their faces with black paint, and sat on 


92 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

the ground around Onomoa’s body with dishevelled 
hair, crying aloud with dismal, long-drawn wails 
and moans. This was continued a long time until 
the girls felt that they should go crazed with the 
melancholy, discordant noise. Then came the 
funeral. 

The squaw’s body was carefully dressed and 
bound about with strips of cloth to hold it in a 
sitting posture, her knees drawn up against her 
chest, her head resting on her knees. This atti- 
tude denoted reverence among the Indians, children 
being often required to assume it in presence of 
the aged. 

The body, facing the east, was placed in a grave 
dug in the Indian burying-place. Beside it were 
placed a paddle and a carrying strap, because it 
was the corpse of a woman ; also Onomoa’s wam- 
pum necklace, bracelets, and other trinkets, dishes 
containing food, and strings of wampum. Onomoa 
being thus fitted for her long journey, the grave 
was filled amid loud wailing from the squaws. 
Having done their duty, the squaws washed their 
faces, and cheerfully returned to work. Onomoa’s 
name was heard no more among her tribe. The 
Indians dislike to mention their dead. If necessary 
to allude to her, she was spoken of as “ the one 
who has gone away.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


SUBMIT TRIES HER PLAN. 

O NE morning Wampanosea, having found that 
Prudence was more skilful with the bone 
needle than at rougher work, had set her to mend- 
ing some deerskin garments. It was also her duty 
to replenish the fire blazing on the ground in the 
centre of the wigwam. Prudence was therefore 
confined to the wigwam, and had no means of see- 
ing Submit or knowing what she was doing. 
Wampanosea herself had gone down to the brook 
to mend a canoe. Moluntha fortunately had gone 
off to examine his raccoon traps, so Prudence was 
alone. 

She fastened up the bearskin hanging over the 
wigwam’s entrance, hoping thus at once to let out 
the smoke, and admit some light and air, sadly 
needed. 

“I must breathe and see,” said Prudence, as, 
drawing a piece of old blanket over her shoulders 
when the October air blew in keenly, she seated her- 
self on the ground, cross-legged, in Indian fashion, 
and pushed the bone needle with difficulty in and 
out the stiff skin. 


94 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Had I but a thimble,” she thought. 

But the slender fingers must do the hard work 
unaided, even though they blistered before the 
task was done. 

“ Perchance I shall get a glimpse of Submit, or 
e’en a chance to speak with her, if I sit here,” 
thought Prudence, often glancing up wistfully as 
squaw or girl passed. 

The fire having burned down to bright coals as 
she sewed, Prudence went out to the pile of long 
sticks outside the wigwam, and with an Indian 
stone axe strove to hack off pieces not too long to 
replenish it. While thus occupied, to her delight, 
she saw Awonusk coming. 

“ Awonusk, where is Maconoquah ?” cried Pru- 
dence. 

“ Maconoquah gone with Osawshequah to catch 
fish in the great river. Squaws will dry fish to eat 
on the long trail towards the sunset,” said Awonusk. 

“ She must mean that the Indians will break 
camp here soon, and go westward,” thought Pru- 
dence, as she went on chopping with foreboding 
thoughts. “And she told Submit the Indians 
killed old Onomoa because they could not carry a 
sick person on a long journey. What will become 
of us, an we must journey still farther into this 
dread wilderness ? Oh, God, wilt thou not speedily 
make haste to deliver us ? ” cried the child’s 
heart. 


SUBMIT TRIES HER PLAN. 


95 


The fire seized eagerly on the sticks Prudence 
fed it, and blazed brightly again. As Prudence 
wearily pushed her bone needle 'to and fro, she often 
thought, — 

“ I wonder what adventures Submit will have 
to tell me of to-night if we can get together. I 
hope she will not have to work too hard. I miss 
her sorely, though she be gone but for a day. The 
time seemeth long.” 

The sun sank low that afternoon, and yet the 
fishing-party did not return. At last in the early 
dusk Prudence saw a file of squaws and girls come 
up the hill from the river, bearing long strings of 
fish. They were chattering in great excitement. 
The excitement seemed to spread through the 
camp. There was a running to and fro, and 
Prudence, straining her eyes through the dusk to 
catch a glimpse of Submit, thought the warriors 
were arming as if preparing to go out. Then she 
saw Osawshequah coming, looking very angry. Yet 
she ventured to approach her, to ask timidly, — 

“ Good Osawshequah, where is Maconoquah ? 
Can Kippenoquah talk to her netop ? ” 

Osawshequah glared at Prudence angrily, then 
burst out in a fierce tirade in the Indian tongue. 
Recollecting herself, she summoned the little 
English she knew, and cried out in tones of rage, 

“ No talk to Osawshequah of Maconoquah. 
Maconoquah bad, no good, thief, liar, run away ! ” 


96 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Prudence’s heart sank down, down. Submit had 
carried out her desperate plan ! 

“ Braves go catch Maconoquah quick, bring 
her back, burn her,” cried Osawshequah, getting 
some satisfaction in her rage from the terror in 
Prudence’s pale face. 

As Prudence began sobbing violently, Osawshe- 
quah, with an expression of aversion as for a 
snake, struck her savagely, crying, — 

“ Pappoose ! White-livered slave ! ” 

Prudence fell to the ground with the force of the 
squaw’s blow ; yet, in the agony of grief wringing 
her heart, she hardly felt it. She went to her 
wigwam and creeping into its farthest corner, 
curled up on the ground, sobbing and moaning, — 
“What shall I do ? Oh, what shall I do ? ” 

She could not endure this life without Submit. 
She knew that Submit had not deliberately de- 
serted her, but had, in despair of succor reaching 
them before they were borne farther from home, re- 
solved to make a desperate effort to reach the settle- 
ments below, and send back relief to her friend. 

“ But ’t is so hopeless,” moaned Prudence. 
“ She will starve to death, or be devoured by wild 
beasts. Oh, why did she venture it ? ” 

Prudence’s heart seemed broken as she lay 
shaking all over with her passionate sobs. She 
could see no hope for either Submit or herself. 
All was dark. There was no possible help, none. 


SUBMIT TRIES HER PLAN. 


97 


At last her religious training asserted itself. 
She bethought herself, was not God still in His 
heaven above ? He must know, must care. 
Kneeling alone in the firelight, her wet eyes look- 
ing up through the opening above to the stars 
shining so serenely down, the desolate child poured 
out her sorrows, and pleaded with the all-seeing 
Father in heaven to watch over and save her 
friend from all the perils around her. 

Wampanosea and the other Indians now came 
in. Prudence must lie down close among the 
dirty Indians, her feet to the fire, so cramped it 
was impossible to stretch out straight. But her 
prayer had calmed her, given her a faint ray of 
hope, or rather trust, that God would help, though 
she could not see how. 

“ But Mr. Russell hath oft said that all things 
are possible to Him,” was her last thought, as, 
exhausted by the violence of her grief, she fell 
into a heavy slumber. 

When Submit learned that she was to accom- 
pany the squaws fishing, in order to gather food 
for a long journey to the west, she felt that escape 
she must, now or never. Osawshequah would not 
let her go to see or speak to Prudence before 
starting. 

“ Perchance ’t is as well,” thought Submit, as she 
trudged on behind Osawshequah, bearing that 
7 


98 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

haughty dame’s fishing-tackle and paddles. “ Pruda 
would have tried to hinder me. But I know 
I must try to escape. ’T is our only chance. 
I doubt not God will help me, for ’t is right.” 

The squaws launched canoes hidden along- 
shore, paddled out into mid-stream, and went 
down the Connecticut towards a favorite fishing- 
place. Submit sat in the bow of Osawshequah’s 
canoe, paddling with some skill, this not being her 
first fishing-excursion ; while Osawshequah in the 
stern steered with her paddle, loudly berating her 
slave for laziness if Submit’s tired arms relaxed 
speed. 

The long forenoon wore on, and yet no chance 
offered for Submit to escape. But when the sun 
was high overhead, the hungry squaws, who had 
eaten little that day, landed, and, pushing through 
the tangle of willows and alders alongshore, 
sought an open place on the higher land back, to 
make a fire and hastily cook a few of their fish. 
More wood was needed, and Osawshequah impe- 
riously commanded her servant to bring some, 
pointing towards the forest below. 

Submit went towards the woods with fast-beat- 
ing heart, thinking, — 

u Now is my time.” 

Once in the forest, concealed by a height of land 
from the squaws, she ran swiftly towards the 
river bank, dodging among the tree-trunks, to the 


SUBMIT TRIES HER PLAN. 


99 


spot where the canoes were beached. Shoving 
the first one she reached into the water, she sprang 
in, and pushed out where the current was deep 
and strong. 

The current seized the light craft and bore it 
swiftly down stream, Submit paddling frantically 
to get on as far as possible ere she was missed and 
pursued. Finally she dared not keep out on the 
river any longer. 

“ They will be on my track by this, ,, she thought, 
“ and they paddle so much quicker than I they 
will surely o’ertake me. I must hide somewhere 
speedily.” * 

Coming to a bend in the river where the current 
ran near shore, exerting all her strength, she suc- 
ceeded in getting so near to land that she could 
wade ashore. Giving the canoe a push out into 
the current, she waded down to a projecting tree 
trunk, and scrambled along on it to a thicket of 
bushes, thus leaving no footprints in the sand for 
the sharp eyes of the squaws. 

Parting the bushes carefully, that they might 
spring together again as if undisturbed, she climbed 
up through them into the forest that covered the 
whole country, excepting a few stretches of meadow 
here and there on the bottoms. 

“ They are’ coming ! they are coming ! I must 
hide somewhere ! ” thought Submit in a panic. 

Looking wildly about for some place of refuge, 


100 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

she spied the prostrate trunk of a primeval oak, 
centuries old, which, hollow at heart, had at last 
been forced to yield to winter’s blasts, and had 
fallen on the ground. To this hollow log Submit 
ran, crawling into it w T ith difficulty. As she forced 
her way in, she heard a scratching and spitting, as 
some wild creature scrambled out the other end 
and fled. 

Submit’ s heart beat fast, but she thought, 
bravely keeping up her courage, — 

(S I care not. I fear not wild beasts so sorely as 
being recaptured by the savages.” 

Before a great while she heard the plashing of 
paddles and the loud and excited voices of the 
squaws, evidently going down the river in pursuit 
of her. By and by they landed, and searched 
along shore. Submit held her breath to listen. 
Gradually the sound of their voices faded farther 
and farther away, and all was still again, with the 
intense silence of a great forest. But still Submit 
dared not venture forth. 

“ They may have left some one to spy,” she 
thought. 

When at last she ventured to crawl out, the sun 
had set, and night was coming on. The child was 
alone, alone in the wild forest. She became sen- 
sible that she was both wet and hungry. She had 
eaten nothing that day save a small handful of 
meal Awonusk had given her in the early morn- 


SUBMIT TRIES HER PLAN. 


101 


ing, which Submit, having no time to make it into 
a little cake to bake, had swallowed raw as it 
was. She must try to find some food. 

Wandering on in the forest, but careful to keep 
near the river, which she meant to follow down 
home, she came to a black-birch tree. Breaking 
off twigs, she gnawed the bark. Even this meagre 
excuse for food somewhat relieved her faintness. 

The darkness began to settle down over the 
silent forest, where no birds twittered now. But 
presently the awesome silence was broken by a 
sound fearful to Submit, — the distant yelp of a 
wolf. 

“ I must find some refuge ere it grow wholly 
dark,” she thought. 

Running as fast as her tired limbs would carry 
her among the trees, while the wolf’s bark seemed 
to grow nearer, she found at last a large maple 
into whose low-growing branches she managed, by 
great effort, spurred on by fear, to scramble, climb- 
ing higher up and up among the limbs, till she 
came to a crotch where several branched out, mak- 
ing a sort of seat. 

So relieved was Submit when she sank safely 
into this seat high above the ground, that for the 
first time she cried, cried hysterically, as if her 
heart would break. But soon, dashing away her 
tears, she thought, — 

“ I must not cry. I ought to be thankful that 


102 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

my plan has succeeded so far. I must keep up 
heart, and get down to the settlements somehow, 
and send the soldiers up speedily to rescue Pruda. 
I will do it.” 

Her loving thoughts of the dear little friend, 
who, she knew, was now doubtless grieving sorely 
for her, had a fearful interruption. Did her 
strained ears hear stealthy footfalls on the rustling 
leaves below, or was it fancy ? A mombnt more, 
and a wolf yelped directly below her. He was 
joined by others, until a pack of six or seven 
hungry wolves were snapping and snarling be- 
neath her. 

In the starlight Submit’ s fearful eyes could 
dimly see dark forms below, leaping and howling, 
straining every muscle to reach their prey. She 
clutched the limbs more tightly. Evidently she 
was safe at present, as the wolves’ most frantic 
leaps did not bring them near her. 

“ But what if, by and by, o’ercome by weariness, 
I should drop asleep and chance to let go the 
limb?” thought Submit. “Oh, my Father in 
heaven, thou hast helped me thus far ! Be pleased 
to care for me, and bring me safely through this 
dreadsome night, and home at last to Hadley, I 
pray thee for Christ’s sake ! ” 

As Submit prayed, she too looked up to the 
stars, the same stars towards which Prudence’s 
tearful eyes were turned, the stars shining down 


SUBMIT TRIES HER PLAN. 


103 


on the whole revolving earth with all its tangle of 
joys and sorrows. Something in their calmness, 
their very aloofness, reassured and quieted Submit, 
like an answer to her prayer. 

As the night wore on, it grew colder and colder. 
Osawshequah had long ago taken away Submit’s 
English clothing, and she was dressed like the 
squaws in deerskin garments, leggings, and mocca- 
sins, going with bare head. The girls had become 
partly hardened by their constant out-door life ; 
yet Submit felt herself gradually growing so cold 
that a new fear beset her. What if she should be 
so chilled and stiff as to lose her hold and fall 
down among the hungry, howling wolves ! 

She wound her arm more tightly around the 
branch, and again prayed in her heart to God for 
help and care. After hours of vain leaping and 
yelping, the disappointed wolves at last crept off 
to seek other prey. But Submit dared not sleep, 
indeed, could not. Her weary eyes were strained 
for the first sign of dawn. Was it growing faintly 
lighter, or did her anxiety deceive her? Yes, a 
faint gray began to reveal first the nearer tree- 
trunks, then the farther aisles of the forest, and 
finally the broad stream sweeping on past, “ to Had- 
ley,” thought Submit. The stars faded. Blessed 
daylight and morning had come. 

Submit was so cramped and lame it was with 
difficulty she half tumbled, half climbed down from 


104 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

her refuge, and tried to walk. Again she nibbled 
twigs of black birch. She found too some winter- 
green leaves and berries. Eating these as she 
walked, to lose no time, she pressed on beside the 
bank of the Connecticut, which in her dreary 
situation seemed a sort of friend, because its 
stream was so intimately associated with Hadley 
life, and because it would surely lead her home, 
could she only follow it long and closely enough. 

“ But I must steer my way far around the 
Indian camps at Peskeompskut Falls and Pocum- 
tuck,” she thought. “ Perchance I may then get 
lost in the wilderness. But I will not borrow 
trouble, but e’en do my best each day as it cometh.” 

A pink light diffused over the whole sky, and 
the rosy morning clouds, gave promise of a 
pleasant day. Then the sun came up over the 
hills, its light and warmth bringing new hope and 
cheer to the forlorn little wanderer, alone in the 
wilderness. 

“ If all goeth well, I will get o’er a goodly piece 
of the way to Hadley this day,” thought Submit, 
hopefully. 

She trudged sturdily on. Often did she catch 
glimpses of the wild denizens of the forest, — 
rabbits leaping away at sight of this strange 
creature, a human being ; squirrels scrambling up 
trees, turkeys and partridges vanishing, foxes 
stealthily slipping into thickets, minks and musk- 


SUBMIT TRIES IIER PLAN. 105 

rats plumping into brooks as the child’s feet 
splashed through their stream. 

Once she saw with terror a creature like a huge 
cat creeping along a tree branch far overhead. 
But, fortunately for her, its eye was fixed on other 
prey, and Submit ran safely away, until forced to 
stop for breath. 

She often saw deers and fawns, stopping a 
moment to gaze curiously at this strange appear- 
ance in their wildwood haunts, then bounding 
gracefully away into the forest, sure that it boded 
no good. Did it not walk upright on two legs ? 

“Why do ye flee, pretty creatures?” said the 
lonely child. “ Ye need not fear me, I bear no 
weapon.” 

The sound of her own voice echoed drearily 
through the silence. In truth, her courage began 
to fail. Exhausted by her sleepless night and the 
lack of food, she felt that her weary feet, already 
sore, could hardly carry her much farther. And 
yet the sun was hardly noon high. 

“ Could I but find somewhat to eat, I might 
yet press on,” she thought, as she came to a tiny 
brook that wound through the meadow she was 
crossing, half hid in the long, dead, wild grass 
that hung over it and swept along in its current. 
Under the edge of the bank in the clear water, 
Submit saw something move. Putting down hey 
hand, she brought out a little turtle. 


106 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Should I eat this turtle, its meat would give 
me strength,” she thought. 

The turtle had drawn head and legs into its 
shell. The little head peeped cautiously out for 
an instant, to be swiftly drawn back. The fright 
of the helpless thing touched Submit’ s tender 
heart. Great as was her hunger, she could not 
bring herself to take stones, smash the turtle’s 
shell, and kill it, as she had seen the Indian 
children do. 

“ Fear not, poor little creature,” she said, as she 
gently put the turtle back in its brook. “ I ’ll not 
take thy life. Thou hast as good right to it as I 
to mine.” 

Comforted a little in her heart by the sense of 
having done a kindness to one of God’s creatures, 
Submit went on, and not long after came to the 
remains of a deer which apparently some Indian 
had slain, carrying off only the best part, leaving 
some poorer portions which wild beasts and birds 
had not yet wholly devoured. She pulled off 
some strips of the dried flesh, and ate them with 
aversion, yet revived by even this food, and by a 
drink from a spring in the woods. 

On and on the child toiled, now wading brooks 
or struggling through tangled morasses, now climb- 
ing over great mossy trunks of prostrate trees, 
now pushing through thorny thickets that seemed 
to catch her garments like living things and try to 


SUBMIT TRIES HER PLAN. 


107 


hold her back. Sometimes she came out on the 
bank of the river, which swept along down on its 
course so free and strong, Submit envied it. 

“Would I could move on southward as easily 
and speedily as the great river ! ” she thought. 
“ Naught hinders it.” 

The sun descended low in the west, and shone 
with lessened light and cheer. As its radiance 
waned the shadows lengthened, and the wild 
forest grew sombre and dreary. Submit’s heart 
failed her. So weary were her aching feet and 
limbs, it was with greatest difficulty she could drag 
herself along over the rough pathless ground. 
The obstacles encountered seemed to grow more 
and more insurmountable. 

“ 1 have not strength to mount up into a tree 
to-night,” she thought, “ e’en though I found one 
I could climb.” 

Finally, absolutely unable to go another step, 
she crawled in under the low sweeping branches of 
a dense hemlock thicket, and fell rather than lay 
down. 

“ Father in heaven, help an Thou canst ; I 
can do no more,” was her last conscious thought, 
as she fell asleep on the instant of lying down. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


HE next thing Submit knew, she was 



JL wakened by some one or something clutch- 
ing her deerskin garment, dragging her out from 
under the hemlocks. 

“ The wolves ! the wolves ! ” she screamed. 

Worse even than a wolf Submit thought him, 
when, struggling to escape, she found herself in 
the grasp of an Indian, none other than Petomanch. 

“ Ugh ! ” grunted Petomanch, looking as sur- 
prised as an Indian ever allows himself to look, at 
finding the suspicious object he had seen huddled 
under the hemlocks one of the little English cap- 
tives so far from camp. 

“Kippenoquah here?” he asked, peering suspi- 
ciously in the dim light under the hemlocks. 

Submit made no reply. She was in such de- 
spair, she cared for nothing. Petomanch might 
kill her if he chose. Nothing mattered now. 

Petomanch pulled his prize roughly along toward 
a fire blazing in an open place in the woods. 
Around it was gathered a large party of Indians, 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


109 


not only those who had gone out on the war-path 
from Squakeag, but strange Indians of other tribes. 
All bore heavy packs on their backs, as if return- 
ing from a successful foray. They looked with 
surprise on Petomanch, so unexpectedly bringing 
in an English captive, crying “Ho ho,” in guttural 
tones of delight. 

Petomanch, with dark countenance, muttered 
what seemed fierce threats in the Indian tongue, 
as he seized Submit by the hair. But at this in- 
stant Wadnummin saw Submit, and came to Peto- 
manch, evidently laying claim to her as his own 
slave. He took possession of her, and brought her 
near the fire. Seeing her exhaustion, he partly 
roasted a piece of venison over the fire, and gave 
her, but Submit was able to swallow but a morsel. 

When the Indians camped for the night, Wad- 
nummin made his captive lie down by the fire, 
binding her hands and feet fast with strips of 
moosewood bark. Then he lay down beside her, 
pointing significantly to his tomahawk as he said, — 

“Maconoquah no run away any more. Wad- 
nummin scalp her.” 

Submit was so completely exhausted that, bound 
as she was, she at once fell asleep, feeling a cer- 
tain rest and comfort in the consciousness that at 
least she could sleep in safety, with no danger 
from wild beasts. 

Wadnummin was up with the first rays of dawn. 


110 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Going down to the river’s bank, his sharp eyes 
saw some object lodged against a sand-bar running 
out from the opposite shore. Was it an over- 
turned canoe, or only a log? 

Wadnummin shed his one garment, pulled off 
leggings and moccasins, and swam across. He 
found a canoe stuck on the sand-bar, — moreover 
his own canoe, as he well knew by certain private 
marks on both the canoe and the paddles, which 
had also floated into the cove. 

“ Ugh ! ” grunted he, well pleased. “ Maconoquah 
steal canoe. Great Spirit give it back to Wad- 
nummin. Wadnummin burn some of the Spring- 
field tobacco to the Great Spirit to-morrow.” 

Submit slept heavily till wakened by Wadnum- 
min. He unbound her, and helped her to her feet. 
She could hardly stand, much 'less walk, so stiff 
and swollen were her limbs, so weak was she from 
fatigue and lack of food. Nor was she able to 
swallow the meat Wadnummin offered her. She 
wondered drearily, though with but a dull interest, 
what would be her fate. She saw Petomanch lay 
his hand on his tomahawk, apparently advising 
Wadnummin to slay her, as likely to be an en- 
cumbrance on the day’s march, for which the 
Indians were now lading themselves, preparing to 
start. 

But Wadnummin shook his head emphatically, 
pointing towards the river, and telling Petomanch 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


Ill 


something which seemed to please that grim war- 
rior. Then Wadnummin raised Submit in his 
arms, and bore her away towards the river. 

“ He meaneth to drown me ! ” thought Submit. 

But no ; the river reached, she was placed in 
a canoe. Petomanch took the paddle at the bow, 
Wadnummin sat in the stern, and again Submit* 
found herself going up the river, as before, in pos- 
session of the same Indians who had first captured 
her. 

One heavy thought weighed down her heart, 
worse than her capture, worse than her disap- 
pointed hopes. She brewed it drearily over and 
over, as the canoe glided swiftly on up the river. 
The beauty of the clear stream, the blue sky, the 
brilliant trees, she saw not. This heavy thought 
weighed her heart down like a stone. 

When Wadnummin brought Submit back into 
camp late that afternoon, Osawshequah’s face 
lighted up with cruel joy. With a mingled ex- 
clamation of joy and rage, she seized Submit by 
the hair, and would have pulled out a handful 
then and there, as a foretaste of greater tortures. 
But Wadnummin caught her hand, and spoke 
sternly and emphatically. This slave was valu- 
able property, and must be cared for. He hoped 
erelong to exchange her for powder, either with 
the Dutch at Fort Orange , 1 or his French brothers 

1 Albany. 


112 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

in Canada. Osawshequali had been careless. It 
was Osawshequah’s fault that the captive had 
escaped. Another day she must watch with longer 
eyes. Maconoquah was too valuable property to 
be lost or injured. Now she was sick, and Osaw- 
shequah must cure her. 

Osawshequah grunted in ill-concealed disgust. 
But her lord had spoken, and she must obey. She 
took Submit into her wigwam, and made her lie 
down on a soft bearskin by the fire. Pulling off 
her moccasins, she rubbed the swollen little feet 
with melted bear’s grease. Though it was not 
done gently, yet this ministration was so soothing, 
combined with the fire, the warmth, the soft skin, 
and the sense of relinquished effort, that Submit 
fell asleep. Osawshequah threw a blanket over 
her, and went out to tell the other squaws her 
good fortune in the recapture of her slave. 

As Submit moaned and turned uneasily in her 
sleep, in disturbed dreams again struggling along 
the weary way, a hand was softly laid on her 
brow. She started wildly up, to be caught in 
Prudence’s arms. 

“ Dear, dear Submit ! Thou canst ne’er know 
how it gladdens me to see thee again, safe and 
sound.” 

Submit buried her face on Prudence’s shoulder, 
and wept as though she could never cease, while 
Prudence tried in vain to soothe her. 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


113 


u Oh,” said Submit, at last, “ ’t is so sweet to see 
thee again and feel thee nigh. But, Pruda — ” 
Submit hesitated, then poured out all the bitterness 
of her heart. “ God is so cruel,” she cried, “ if, 
indeed, there be any God ! ” 

u Submit ! ” exclaimed the horrified Prudence. 

“ I planned to escape, and deliver thee, too, from 
this wretched bondage. I did my utmost, and I 
asked God to help me. But He hath suffered the 
savages to capture me again, and there is no more 
hope for us, none,” sobbed Submit. 

For a moment Prudence was silent, her childish 
faith staggering under doubts that have torn many 
an older soul. Then she said softly, — 

“ Dear Submit, I think we must not doubt God, 
whatever happens. Perchance this happening, 
which seemeth now to be so dark, may really be 
for the best. God may plan to care for us in a 
better way than thine. He answered my prayer, 
and hath kept thee safe from harm. I was so 
fearful lest wild beasts devour thee in the forest.” 

“ Verily I escaped but narrowly from them,” 
said Submit, telling her friend about her first night 
and the wolves. 

“ There,” said Prudence, her blue eyes shining. 
“ Seest not ’t is e’en as I told thee ? God did 
take care of thee and preserve thee. What an 
thou hadst not chanced on that tree at that mo- 
ment ? And think on the mercy of having the 


114 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

canoe lodge where it did, when thou couldst not 
walk.” 

Submit’s face softened, and lost something of its 
dreary, hopeless look. 

“ I long to think ’t is as thou sayest,” she said, 
“ for, Pruda, thou canst not know how dreary it is 
to believe, even for a moment, that there is no 
God, or that He careth not what happeneth to us.” 

“ I know it is not so,” said Prudence. 

Comforted a little, and hope, so hard to crush, 
again reviving, they talked on, Submit telling of 
her wanderings. 

“ How chances it, Pruda, that Wampanosea suf- 
fereth thee to be idle so long ? ” asked Submit, at 
last. 

“I have been almost ill, Submit, since thou 
went. I could not eat or work. I believe I should 
have died, hadst thou not come back. But now 
I can eat. I feel hungry. Thou lookest so wan I 
know thou, too, must need food. I will go and 
see if I can find anything to eat,” said Prudence. 

When she returned she brought on a plate of 
thick bark a good-sized fish which she had roasted, 
and a little cake made of pounded corn. Submit, 
somewhat comforted now by the talk with Pru- 
dence, began again to take an interest in life, and 
to realize that she was famished. 

“ How savory the fish smells ! ” she said. u How 
didst contrive to get such a feast ? ” 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


115 


“ Moluntha had just come in from fishing, with 
a goodly string of bass. He agreed to give me 
one, if I would play cat’s cradle with him by and 
by. 1 have taught him to play cat’s cradle with a 
bit of string. Since then, he carrieth himself more 
friendly. He feels proud because none other of the 
boys know the game, unless he teacheth them. He 
inaketh them work for him and bring him gifts in 
payment. He saith he is their chief,” said Pru- 
dence, with a smile, as she set down her plate. 

“ But, oh, Submit, I have such a treat,” cried 
Prudence, her eyes sparkling. “ Thou couldst 
ne’er guess what it is.” 

Putting her hand into the deerskin pouch hang- 
ing at her girdle which served for pocket, and 
drawing out very carefully, lest she lose one pre- 
cious grain, a little package done up in a large 
dock-leaf, Prudence opened it, crying exultingly : 

“ Salt!” 

“ Salt ! ” cried Submit, incredulously. “ Salt 
here in the wilderness ? Hast thou wrought a 
miracle, and turned sand into salt ? How earnest 
thou by it, pray ? ” 

u I fear the Indians have wrought sad havoc on 
some English settlement,” said Prudence, her face 
falling, “ for they are in great triumph, and they 
have brought back pa,cks of kettles, axes, knives, 
guns, pewter vessels, English garments, things 
plainly from English houses. And packs of beef 


116 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

and grain too. Petomanch handed good Wam- 
panosea a bag of salt, and she gave me this little 
handful, saying, 4 Make Kippenoquah well/ Verily 
I can believe it.” 

The girls had not tasted salt since their cap- 
tivity. The relish it gave their food was inde- 
scribable. 

“This salt will do us more good than medi- 
cine, said Submit. 

44 ’Tis wonderful the relish it giveth,” said Pru- 
dence. 44 If we e’er reach home again, Submit, we 
shall ne’er pine for dainties. Mother’s toothsome 
broths and meats will seem dainties enough to us.” 

44 Will they not ? ” said Submit. 44 Think of 
e’en a porringer of bread and milk ! ” 

Evening had come. The noise rising outside 
showed that the Indians were celebrating their 
victory with a great feast. The sound of riotous 
singing, shouting, whooping, stamping the ground 
in wild dances, grew more uproarious, and the 
girls so often heard the names Agawam and 
Springfield yelled out in tones of triumph, as to 
feel sure that Springfield had been destroyed. 
They could not but feel sad and anxious. 

44 What if they are allowed to go on and destroy 
Hadley, Hatfield, all the settlements ? ” asked Sub- 
mit, her depression returning. 

44 Do not let us doubt again, Submit. It is too 
terrible,” said Prudence. 44 Let us keep up hope, 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 


117 


and trust as long as we can. I can but believe 
that God will yet come to the rescue of His 
people.” 

Long after the girls were asleep the uproar 
continued, for the Indians had brought back rum 
from Springfield. The consequences might have 
been serious, had not the squaws, foreseeing 
trouble, hid all weapons. So there were only 
drunken, noisy brawls, in which one brave had 
his nose bitten off. 

The next day, Wampanosea, looking over her 
husband’s pack, tossed contemptuously to Pru- 
dence something she found, which Petoinanch had 
snatched up among the clothing and blankets of a 
pillaged house, saying, — 

“ No good.” 

Prudence could hardly credit her good fortune 
on finding that this despised object was a book, a 
book much worn, but still holding in its covers. 
On the worn leather back she read, in half-effaced 
letters, “ Holy Bible.” Was it possible she had a 
Bible, here in the wilderness ? 

Opening it, on the blank fore-page stained with 
bloody finger-prints, she read, 

Pentecost Matthews Her Booke. 

This Booke 
And Harte 
Shall Never Parte. 

Springfield, This 8th Day of May, A.D. 1666. 


118 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Poor woman ! Doubtless she was slain by 
the Indians,” thought Prudence. 

She hid the precious book behind a roll of skins 
under the edge of the wigwam until she should 
have time to read it. Now she must to work, 
and work faster and harder to make up for time 
lost in illness. 

The first time she saw Submit, she whispered : 

u Come to my wigwam the first time thou 
canst. I have somewhat to show thee ; thou 
canst ne’er guess what.” 

As the ample provisions brought from Spring- 
field still held out, another feast was held, the 
more necessary as several Nipmucks and Warn- 
panoags had come into camp. 

When at last the girls were free to leave the 
scene of the wild orgies, which filled them with 
mingled terror and disgust, gladly they sought 
the shelter of the wigwam. Submit looked awe- 
struck, when Prudence produced the Bible. 

“ Pruda,” she said, “ doth it not seem that God 
Himself hath put this Bible in our hands to com- 
fort us, and signify that He forgetteth us not ? 
It hath come so strangely to us here afar in the 
wilderness amid savages.” 

“ It doth indeed seem like what Mr. Russell was 
wont to call ‘ a special providence,’ ” said Prudence. 
“ It could not have chanced so. It was meant 
for us.” 


DISAPPOINTED HOPES. 119 

Filled with this thought, she reverently opened 
the book. As of itself, it opened at the Twenty- 
seventh Psalm, and again Prudence’s eye fell on 
the familiar words, as, bending over to see by the 
fitful, flickering firelight, she read aloud, — 

“ The Lorde is my light and my salvation, whome 
shall I feare ? The Lorde is the strength of my life, of 
whome shall I be afrayde ? 

“ When the wicked, even my enemies and my foes, 
came upon me to eate up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. 

“ Though an hoste pitched against mee, mine heart 
should not be afrayde ; though warre be raised against 
mee, I will trust in this.” 

Prudence read on, until she came to the triumph- 
ant outburst of faith with which the Psalm closes : 

“ I shoulde have fainted, except I had beleeved to see 
the goodnesse of the Lorde in the land of the living. 

“ Hope in the Lorde : be strong, and he shall comfort 
thine heart, and trust in the Lorde.” 

“ It speaketh to us as if writ for us,” said Sub- 
mit, as Prudence stopped. 

Prudence wiped the tears from her eyes. 

u It soundeth so homelike, so natural,” she said. 
“ I seem to hear again the voices of my father and 
mother. I will ne’er doubt the loving kindness of 
God again, Submit, since He hath sent us this 
Bible.” 

“ ’T is like a covenant that He will yet redeem 
us from bondage,” said Submit. 


CHAPTER IX. 


WINTER ON THE HOOSAC. 

HE girls soon needed all their faith and cour- 



A. age. The Indians, intoxicated with triumph 
by their easy victory at Springfield, boasted loudly 
that, before many moons, they would in like fashion 
destroy all the remaining settlements in the Con- 
necticut Valley, and regain for their own the fertile 
meadows and rich hunting-grounds of their fathers. 
Full of life and activity, parties often descended 
the river on scouting expeditions, returning with a 
few scalps or cattle from some settlement below. 
Abundance of food helped to raise the Indians’ 
spirits. Both “cow beef” and “horse beef” were 
plenty after these raids. The girls thankfully ate 
whichever was offered them, this or starvation being 
their only choice. 

About the middle of October a grand war-coun- 
cil was held. A few days later, with foreboding 
hearts the girls saw the whole body of two or 
three hundred braves, hideous in war-paint, file 
away to the south. 

Moluntha said tauntingly to Prudence, as they 
stood watching the warriors depart, — 


WINTER ON THE HOOSAC. 


121 


“ Braves go burn Hadley all same as Springfield ; 
bring back more captives, more scalps than leaves 
on the trees before many sunsets ; scalp Kippeno- 
quah’s father and mother.” 

Prudence sadly felt that possibly Moluntha spoke 
truly, but she would not please him by seeming 
grieved. She straightened herself defiantly, and 
pointing up to the sky, said, — 

“ The Great Spirit no let Indians burn Hadley.” 

“ Ugh,” said Moluntha, “ Great Spirit not Eng- 
lishman’s God. Him no care. Him drink Eng- 
lishman’s blood ; make braves’ path smooth to 
Hadley,” said Moluntha, as he ran off to gather 
his followers for a grand squirrel-hunt. 

The camp seemed comparatively quiet and de- 
serted in the absence of the warriors. The squaws 
were busily at work, making moccasins and leg- 
gings, and storing away food for the winter or a 
long journey, the girls knew not which. 

Late in October, the “ Indians’ summer ” came. 
The blue haze rested softly on the mountains around 
Squakeag, the bright yellow leaves floated gently 
down in the warm south wind, the sun shone with 
friendly warmth, and Prudence heard a belated 
bird crying “ Phoe-be, Phoe-be,” from the half-bare 
but still glowing red branches of a soft maple, 
near the place where she was at work helping 
Wampanosea line one of the holes in the hillside 
with long, wide strips of bark. This done, Warn- 


122 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

panosea placed a mat woven of rushes on the bot- 
tom, setting on it a large basket which she and 
Prudence then began filling with corn. 

She sent Prudence ‘to bring more corn. As 
Prudence went, she met Submit, bent over under a 
back load of wood, w T hich she dropped beside her 
mistress’s wigwam, straightening herself, and look- 
ing brightly at Prudence. 

“ Is it not a beauteous day ?” she said. “ I know 
not why, but I cannot help feeling happy, as though 
it were an omen of good fortune coming. When I 
was in the forest over the brook, the little chicka- 
dees were busy all about gathering seeds from the 
goldenrod. One came and perched itself on a 
bough o’er my head, and swinging there, called so 
merrily, ‘ Chick-a-dee-dee-dee,’ I felt as if it said, 
4 Be of good cheer, Submit.’ ” 

“ That is like one of thy old merry fancies, 
Submit,” said Prudence. “ It gladdens me to see 
thee better and in good cheer.” 

“My lot is easier of late. I have taken a les- 
son from thee. Wadnummin’s oldest boy, called 
Kimonsaqua, meaning c young panther,’ — verily 1 
oft think he meaneth to merit that name, — hath 
been my sore torment. The other night I told 
him, if he would cease his torments, I would teach 
him a game. This delighted him, for he hopeth to 
make himself rank equal with Moluntha among 
the boys. I told him to bring a square piece of 


WINTER ON THE HOOSAC. 


123 


board or smooth bark. Then I heated one end of 
an iron and burned holes and lines on the board, 
making a fox and geese board.’' 

“ What do you use for men ? ” asked Prudence. 

“ Black and white pebbles from the brook,” said 
Submit. “ I managed to teach Kimonsaqua some- 
thing of the game, and he is so eager to learn more, 
he will do anything for me. He gave me this 
handful of chestnuts but now. Here are some for 
thee. Awonusk saith his mother, noting the change 
in his actions, thinketh I have bewitched her son.” 

Prudence laughed, and hurried back to work, 
munching her nuts, feeling, as Submit had said, 
that the soft air, the warm sunshine, the beauty all 
around, whispered of hope. 

When the corn basket was full, Wampanosea 
covered it, first with bark, then with earth, pulling 
leaves and rubbish over the spot to wholly conceal 
it. 

“ When no deer meat, no bears, no turkey, snow 
everywhere, braves come home empty-handed from 
the hunt, then Wampanosea dig up her corn,” said 
the squaw, showing her teeth in a pleasant smile. 

But here Wampanosea turned, looking eagerly 
off over the meadow below. 

“The braves come back from the war-path,” 
said she. 

Prudence looked where Wampanosea pointed. 
Yes, a long file of Indians was coming out of the 


124 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

woods below to the south. Prudence watched them 
with anxious heart, in mingled hope yet dread that 
she might see some friend among their captives. 

Although the Indians gave their usual scalp 
halloo as they came up the hill, it was soon evi- 
dent that they had met with a serious repulse. 
They brought no captives, but few scalps, many 
were wounded, and some braves who had gone 
confidently out returned no more. Their bodies 
were left behind at Hatfield, where the Indians 
had suffered a bloody defeat. 

Submit and Prudence were secretly full' of joy, 
and now felt lively hopes of a speedy rescue. 
They were careful to conceal their happiness, as 
the squaws blackened their faces with charcoal, 
and mourned for the dead after their custom, while 
the warriors, evidently much downcast, held grave 
councils. 

“The English army will surely follow up this 
defeat by pursuing the Indians e’en to Squakeag,” 
whispered Submit in Prudence’s ear. 

“ Once we know an English army is close by, 
we will escape and run to them,” said Prudence, 
her eyes sparkling. 

“ Yerily we will,” said Submit. “ Did I not tell 
thee I felt a presentiment of good coming ? ” 

But these bright hopes were soon to be cruelly 
disappointed. So many Indians had made Squa- 
keag their head-quarters that game had grown 


WINTER ON THE HOOSAC. 


125 


scarce in the region ; the hunters were forced to 
take longer and longer range, sometimes being out 
three days, yet returning with little or nothing. 
They must scatter to seek fresh hunting-grounds 
for the winter. Perhaps also they feared an 
attack by the English. At all events, they broke 
up into small bands, some going to Wennimisset , 1 
some north, some west, only a few remaining at 
Squakeag. 

November had come. The dreamy Indian sum- 
mer had vanished in a night. Another world had 
dawned, — a hard, cold world of gray clouds, of 
bleak blasts that howled through the bare tree 
branches with wintry tone, and sent the last dry 
leaves whirling afar over the brown meadows. 

Up the valley of the Pocumtuck 2 toiled a small 
band of Indians. The warriors strode ahead, bear- 
ing only their weapons, eye and ear constantly on 
the alert, less for the English than for their 
dreaded foes, the bloody Maquas or Mohawks, an 
ever-present fear to the Valley Indians. Sanchu- 
machu led this band west, in search of a favorable 
camping-spot for the winter. 

Behind the men came the women and children. 
Some squaws bore their pappooses on their 
backs, hanging by straps around their foreheads. 
Others bent under burdens, their few worldly pos- 
sessions. The boys carried bows and arrows, and 

1 Near Brookfield. 2 Deerfield River. 


126 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


tried to bring down any small game they might 
luckily chance upon. 

Among the girls toiled along two, dressed in 
deerskin, with bare heads like the others, their 
hair and dirt-stained faces thickly oiled with bear 
grease, their only protection against rain. Loads 
were strapped on their backs, all that their 
strength would enable them to bear. 

These were Prudence and Submit, forced to fol- 
low their Indian masters. No English army had 
come to their rescue. With heavy hearts that 
made lagging steps, the girls dragged themselves 
on, up the picturesque valley, through w r hich the 
Pocumtuck dashes and sparkles down over the 
rocks from its sources in Vermont . 1 The brown 
hills each side the river changed into high wooded 
mountains ; the country, at every step, grew wilder 
and more savage. The band left the bank of the 
Pocumtuck, and began the ascent of a steep moun- 
tain 2 that looked hopelessly high and forbidding 
to the despairing girls. 

“ This great mountain seemeth like a wall o’er 
which we shall ne’er return,” said Prudence, one 
day, as she and Submit climbed along together up 
the mountain side. 

“ Perchance they take us to Fort Orange to 
trade us for powder, as they have oft spoken of 

1 Where the Fitchburg Railroad now runs. 

2 Hoosac Mountain. 


WINTER ON THE HOOSAC. 127 

doing/’ said Submit. “ I see by the sun that we 
journey westward.” 

This hope was all that kept the girls from utter 
despair. At last they reached the summit. A 
wide view extending toward the west opened be- 
fore them. Far below lay a wild, beautiful valley 
surrounded by noble mountains, the whole country 
as far as the eye reached an unbroken forest, ex- 
cept occasional open meadows along the banks of 
a small river which they saw winding through the 
valley toward the west. 

“ Hoosac,” said Wampanosea, pointing to the 
river. 

Down into the valley of the Hoosac the band 
went, following its course until they reached a 
spot which Sanchumachu deemed suitable for 
camping, — a sunny meadow by the river, open to 
the south, protected on the north by wooded hills. 
While the men scattered out into the woods in 
search of game, the squaws, dropping their burdens, 
prepared to build their little village. 

The women and girls went into the woods and 
hacked down poles, while the boys brought tough 
strips of bark to tie the poles together at the top. 
The winter lodges were made large enough for two 
or three families, each having its own fire. When 
the poles were erected, branches of hemlock were 
laid against them to make the lodges warmer, 
then skins and mats placed on to cover the whole. 


128 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

All surplus belongings were stowed away under 
the edge of the wigwam. 

By the time the lodges were done, some of the 
squaws had brought fuel, and kindled fires in their 
centre. Within a short hour the Indians were 
settled in their new home, ready to resume the old 
monotonous life. 

Snow came early and soon grew deep, winter 
setting in with unusual severity. The Indians 
made snow-shoes and sledges, and roamed afar 
through the forests deep with snow, and over the 
hills, in pursuit of game. When fortune favored 
and the hunters returned with moose, bear, or 
deer, all in the lodge shared the provision. While 
it lasted the Indians lay lazily around the fires, 
gorging themselves. 

The squaws carefully dressed the skins, several 
of which usually hung in the smoky top of the 
wigwam drying. After the stores of corn, dried 
meat and fish brought from Squakeag had been 
exhausted, when the hunters had ill luck, some- 
times days passed with no food that could prop- 
erly be called such. The squaws and girls went 
into the woods, dug away the snow under the 
trees, and counted themselves happy could they 
bring back a handful of acorns, some edible roots, 
or a few nuts the squirrels had overlooked. Some- 
times their only food was birch bark, or the soft 
inner bark of other trees. 


WINTER ON THE IIOOSAC. 


129 


Had not the captive girls become somewhat 
inured to the Indian manner of life, they could 
not have survived the hardships of the winter. In 
their Indian dress, with their dirty, smoke-dark- 
ened faces, they could not easily have been dis- 
tinguished from the Indian girls around them. 
Their skill with the needle often saved them from 
harder toil and from much exposure. 

One bit of good fortune was that Wadnummin 
and Petomanch shared the same lodge. Hence 
the girls were now always together, — a great com- 
fort. Prudence had clung to her Bible in all her 
wanderings. When, at rare intervals, the girls 
had a little leisure, when they were not bringing 
up water to camp from the hole cut in the river’s 
ice, or lugging fagots from the forest, or working 
on deerskin clothing, if the noise in the crowded, 
cluttered wigwam was not too great, they improved 
the chance to sit by the fire and read in the Bible, 
its familiar words their only link to home, to civ- 
ilization, to God, and so to faith and hope. 

The Indian girls half mocked, half looked with 
awe on the two white girls poring over the mys- 
terious little black characters. Here was a power 
they knew nothing of. 

“ Crooked marks tell story ? ” one day asked 
Makawitta, a rather pretty girl about the captives’ 
age. 

Submit nodded, and Prudence said, — 

9 


130 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Book tells story of our Great Father up in the 
sky, and of the happy hunting-ground.” 

“ Ho ho,” said Makawitta, scornfully. “ Bad 
story. Englishman’s God no good. Great Spirit 
drive him far away before many moons, back home 
across the great sea.” 

One cold night, when a lowering gray sky had 
all day boded snow, the Indians came home from 
the hunt in great spirits, their dogs having pulled 
down a fat moose, stalled in the deep snow in the 
woods. After eating to repletion, they lay around 
the fires in high good-humor, smoking their long 
pipes, which the squaws were now forced to fill for 
them with a mixture of dried sumach and willow 
leaves, scantily blended with tobacco, the store 
brought from Springfield being nearly gone. 

Petomanch called upon Paiunseet, one of the old 
and wise men, to tell a story. Paumseet, looking 
gravely at the fire, whose light played on his deeply 
wrinkled face and gray head, began, — 

“My children, Paumseet is an old oak. The 
storms of many winters have beaten against him, 
and yet he has stood upright. Now his leaves are 
withered and fallen, his branches weak, his trunk 
shakes in every wind. Before many moons it will 
lie low on the ground. Listen to the words that 
Paumseet speaks to you. He heard them from his 
father. They are true words.” 

All the Indians, even the mischievous boys 


WINTER ON THE HOOSAC. 131 

and restless girls, quieted themselves to listen 
reverently. 

“In the beginning,” said Paumseet, “the Great 
Spirit made the world beautiful. The forests were 
full of game and fruit, the streams were choked 
with fish, deer and moose bounded over the 
meadows in great herds. But the world was 
empty, lonely. Then the Great Spirit said, ‘ I will 
make man to live in the world, and enjoy the 
good things in it/ When he finished the first 
man, he turned out to be white. The Great 
Spirit was sorry. He saw the man he had made 
was pale and weak. But he had pity on the white 
man. He did not unmake him ; he let him live. 
But he said, i Now, I will try hard, and make a 
perfect man/ Then he made the red man. The 
red man pleased the Great Spirit much.” 

“ Ho ho,” said the Indians, with grunts and 
exclamations of approval. 

“ Listen to me, my children. I have not told 
you all. The white man and the red stood on the 
earth, but they were poor, their hands were empty. 
Then the Great Spirit let down two boxes from 
the sky full of presents. He said, ‘ Let the white 
man choose first, because he is pale and weak/ 
The white man looked into both boxes, and chose 
the one filled with books, paper, pens, ink, com- 
passes. ‘Now, my red son, take the other box/ 
said the Great Spirit. The red man found the 


132 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

other box filled with axes, tomahawks, war-clubs, 
traps, which pleased him well. The Great Spirit 
laughed to see that his red son had the best box.” 

The Indians, too, laughed at this. 

“ Now listen, my children,” said old Paumseet. 
The Great Spirit gave all the land, the forests and 
the streams, and all the game and fish to the red 
man, because the Great Spirit saw that his red son 
was a bold hunter and warrior. Because he saw 
that the white man was greedy, he put him afar, 
many bow-shots away, across the big water, in a 
poor country. By and by the white man heard 
of the red man’s good land and hunting-grounds, 
and he came across the big water to get away the 
red man’s land from him. The red man pitied 
his weak white brother, helped him, gave him all 
the land he wanted. Then the white man began 
to crowd the red man, to drive him away, to kill 
him, because the white man had guns and powder, 
and the red man had none. The white man 
crowds the land and drives the game far away.” 

The Indians’ faces darkened with anger. 

“ Before many moons, my children, old Paum- 
seet’s head will lie low. He goes to the happy hunt- 
ing-ground of his fathers. Hear his last words. 
The Great Spirit wants his red sons to drive the 
white snake back to his hole. He wants them to 
hold again all the lands he gave their fathers. 
He will help them. Remember my words.” 


WINTER ON THE HOOSAC. 133 

As old Paumseet talked, the northeast wind 
had increased in fury, moaning through the pines, 
creaking the stout branches of oak and elm, shak- 
ing the slender wigwam as if to throw it over. 
Snowflakes dropped in at the dark opening above 
the fire. 

A heavy, driving snow-storm had set in. This 
meant a night of misery to all the occupants of the 
wigwams. The fury of the storm beat the smoke 
back, until the wigwams were suffocatingly full. 
The Indians, with smarting eyes, adopted the only 
way to breathe. Lying flat on the ground, with 
faces as near the bottom of the poles as possible, 
they were able to get a little fresh air. Thus 
lying, there was nothing but patient endurance 
until the storm ceased. 

The only comfort the two girls had was that 
they lay side by side. Reaching under the bear- 
skin covering them, Submit put her arm around 
Prudence, nestling closer to her, as she whispered : 

“ ’T is so good we can at least have each other.” 

“ ’T is of God’s mercy,” whispered Prudence. 
“Such things make me think that He doth not 
forget us here afar in the wilderness, though oft it 
seemeth so. Since He hath kept us alive thus far, 
He may yet bring us home.” 

“ ’Tis hard to keep up hope,” said Submit, “yet 
I strive to, or I should die.” 


CHAPTER X. 


TO CANADA. 


S the long, dreary winter wore slowly away, 



A the captive girls were often agitated by 
conflicting rumors as to their fate. Moluntha, 
Kimonsaqua, and the Indian girls, in the enforced 
idleness of their wfinter life, could find no better 
amusement than playing upon the girls’ hopes and 


fears. 


One day Moluntha said to Prudence, holding up 
four fingers, — 

“ Before so many sunsets, my father and Wad- 
nummin take Kippenoquah and Maconoquah to 
Fort Orange, sell them for powder. Kippenoquah 
and Maconoquah no good ; powder very good ; 
shoot Englishmen ; ” and Moluntha, imitating 
the bang of a musket, roughly pushed Prudence 
toward the fire, almost sending her into the 
flames. 

Prudence and Submit knew so well by this time 
the Indian habit of lying, they dared not base too 
much hope on this story. The very next night 
an unusually large fire was started in a spot near 


TO CANADA. 


135 


the camp where the Indians had cleared away the 
snow. Submit asked Kimonsaqua what this fire 
was for. Grinning fiendishly at her, Kimonsaqua 
replied, — 

“ Big feast to-night. Indians roast and eat 
Maconoquah. Kimonsaqua pick Maconoquah’s 
bones. Sweet meat,” he added, seizing Submit’s 
hand and biting one of her fingers, then smacking 
his lips, and running whooping away. 

Submit believed that Kimonsaqua was lying. 
Still, she could not help feeling some anxiety, for 
the fickle Indians might change their plans any 
moment on some sudden whim. But the fire 
proved to be built to roast a huge moose which the 
Indians had that day run down in the snow, and 
roasted in honor of a strange Indian who had come 
into camp, bringing some message which seemed 
of great moment. The moose’s feet were saved, 
and when all else had been devoured, there came a 
day when Indians and captives alike were thank- 
ful for a few mouthfuls of broth made by boiling 
these feet, the liquor thickened by the powdered 
bark of a tree. 

It was not until later the girls learned that it 
was fear of the Maquas which had prevented the 
Indians from carrying out their original plan of 
selling them to the Dutch at Fort Orange for 
powder. The strange Indian was a messenger 
despatched by Philip with warning that the fierce 


136 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Maquas, breathing death and vengeance, had taken 
up the war-hatchet, and were out on the war-path 
against Philip and his confederates. 

This news also , hastened the breaking up of the 
winter camp, toward the last of February. It 
was a simple process. The squaws rolled up mats 
and skins, leaving the bare poles standing, packed 
their belongings on rude sledges or on their backs, 
strapped their pappooses to their foreheads, and 
were ready to march in an hour’s time. Another 
reason for hastening their departure was that soon 
the spring sun would soften the snow. 

The girls watched the preparations for removal 
with a sickening anxiety, hardly to be borne. 

“ Oh, Submit,” whispered Prudence, as they 
were helping strip the lodge, “ I so long, yet fear, 
to see whither our journey tends, I am sick at 
heart. An they take us farther westward, ’t is the 
end for us.” 

“ I tried to make Kimonsaqua tell me whither 
we go,” said Submit, “ but he only thrust his tongue 
in his cheek, and said, ‘ Go trade Maconoquali with 
the Maquas for a dog/ I take no stock in his 
tales. We shall soon know the worst.” 

When Prudence went to the spot where she kept 
her Bible hid to take it away, lo, it was gone ! 
In vain she searched for it. She begged Moluntha 
to give it back, believing he had hid it to tease 
her, but he denied all knowledge of it. 


TO CANADA. 


137 


“ I doubt not/' Prudence sorrowfully told Sub- 
mit, “ that Moluntha or some of the Indian girls 
have burned it while I was out at work. They 
look upon it with dread, as my 6 pow-wow.’ ” 

“ ’T is a grievous loss to us,” said Submit. “ We 
can only repeat the verses we know, for our 
comfort.” 

At last Sanchumachu started from the aban- 
doned camp, at the head of a file of Indians. The 
girls, in the rear, watched anxiously to see what 
direction he took. Lo, he turned up the Hoosac 
River, towards the great mountain! Joy! joy! 
Their faces were set eastward again ! 

Hope now lightened the way as the girls toiled 
painfully up the steep, slippery mountain, often 
glad to pull themselves along by bushes and 
branches. They had learned to walk on snow- 
shoes, but the sun in the middle of the day soft- 
ened the snow, making progress slow and weari- 
some. When night came the Indians cleared away 
the snow in some comparatively sheltered spot in 
the woods under hemlocks or pines, built a fire, 
strewed the ground around it with the fragrant 
evergreen branches, and lay down for the night, 
wrapped in skins and blankets. The wind moaned 
through the pines, swaying the dark tree-tops to 
and fro, like living creatures, as the girls lay on 
the mountain side, looking up at them in the 
flashing firelight, trying to whisper together for 


138 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

comfort, “The Lord is my shepherd,”* ere the 
heavy sleep of utter exhaustion overpowered them. 

Sometimes they travelled two or three days 
without food, except a few ground nuts, wild 
roots, or the bark of trees. When, after days of 
this semi-starvation, Wadnummin had the good 
fortune to kill a young bear that had ventured 
early out of winter quarters, the famished girls, 
like the Indians, ate till they could eat no more, 
burning their mouths as they greedily devoured 
pieces of the hot meat snatched from the coals 
ere half done. Yet still they felt unsatisfied, for 
hunger had become chronic. 

Osawshequah saved the bear’s claws to com- 
plete a fine necklace of claws she was making for 
Wadnummin. Every other portion of the bear 
without exception was kept and cooked, the girls 
able to swallow now what would once have 
been unspeakably loathsome. When all else was 
gone, in extremity of hunger even the skin was 
cut into strips, the strips roasted in the fire until 
the hair was burned off, and the skin scorched. 
After plodding all day without food in the sharp 
mountain air, the girls were thankful to stifle 
their famished cravings by munching upon this 
pretence of food. 

One day the weather changed. The air grew 
soft, the sky clouded over. The snow melted, and 
progress was so slow and tiresome that the Indians 


TO CANADA. 


139 


came to an early halt. Rain began to drizzle, and 
soon to pour in torrents. The girls, worn and 
exhausted, were in despair. 

“ What will become of us ? ” asked Prudence. 

“ I see not,” said Submit. “ Starved as we are, 
to lie out all night in the rain will surely be the 
end of us.” 

But Indians and squaws fell to stripping long, 
wide pieces of bark from the trees, and, to the girls' 
surprise, succeeded in building small huts of it 
which shed the rain. All huddled under the bark 
cover, and were dry, if not comfortable. 

The tired girls slept as they sat, nodding against 
each other. When they wakened, so cramped and 
stiff they could hardly step, a surprise awaited 
them. The rain had stopped, and the weather 
had turned freezingly cold during the night. The 
wet snow had frozen in a hard crust. The Indians 
call February “ the moon of crusts ” or “ the moon 
of frozen snow,” and were delighted that the 
month at last justified its name. They joyfully 
hastened off to improve to the utmost the good 
travelling. Behind them trudged the girls, ashamed 
of their doubts, as they walked lightly as birds 
high up over the frozen white drifts, the crust 
sparkling in the sun with dazzling brilliance. 

By noon the mountain's summit was reached, 
and the girls with glad eyes looked down into the 
valley of the Pocuintuck, which so often they had 


140 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

despaired of ever again seeing. Progress was 
rapid now, and early in March they were again 
in Squakeag. To return to this familiar spot, to 
be again on the banks of the Connecticut, was a 
kind of home-coming to the girls. Hope was now 
lively. Surely the opening spring must bring an 
English army against the Indians. They had also 
more palatable and abundant food, the squaws dig- 
ging up the grain stored in their barns against 
the time of need, and fish being plentiful in the 
river. 

Spring rains swept away the snow, and revealed 
on the meadows below the Indian camp the 
deserted corn and wheat fields of the white set- 
tlers, still standing partly unreaped. One day 
Awonusk and Wampanosea took the girls down 
on the meadow to gather some of the scattered 
grain still clinging to the straw. 

Towards noon the quick ears of the squaws 
heard sounds to which they listened anxiously. 
Was it the footsteps of friend or foe they heard 
afar to the south ? 

Presently along the settlers’ old path a band of 
stranger Indians was seen emerging from the 
woods. 

“ Nipmucks ! ” cried the squaws. “ What brings 
the Nipmucks so far from their hunting-grounds ? ” 

“ There is an Englishwoman with them,” whis- 
pered Submit to Prudence. 


TO CANADA. 


141 


“ Art sure ? ” asked Prudence, eagerly. 66 Is she 
not a squaw ? ” 

“ No ; I see tattered remains of English clothes 
on her. She weareth knit hose. Mark her sor- 
rowful countenance and her tottering steps. She 
can hardly go. Oh, how I long to speak to her ! ” 

“ Perchance Wampanosea will suffer us to give 
her some of our corn,” said Prudence. 

Among the Nipmucks was one who bore a basket 
of horse liver. While the squaws went to trade 
some of their corn for his meat, the girls ventured 
to approach near Mrs. Rowlandson. For she it was, 
a captive among the Nipmucks, who had lately 
destroyed Lancaster. The girls each thrust an 
ear of corn into her hand, and would have spoken 
to her. But Mrs. Rowlandson’s stern-looking 
master drove them away with fierce words and 
threatening waves of his tomahawk. 

“ I am glad we managed to give the poor woman 
a little food, at all hazards,” said Submit. 

“ She beareth herself as though she had seen but 
little of late,” said Prudence. “ To-morrow morn 
we must get speech with her. ’T will cheer her 
and us, and we may learn somewhat of Hadley.” 

As for Mrs. Rowlandson, dulled by suffering, her 
eyes nearly blind from the smoke of the wigwams 
and the glare of the sun beating on her bare head 
as she walked, she was far from recognizing Eng- 
lish children in the wild-looking, unkempt little 


142 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

savages with dirty, smoke-darkened skin and tan- 
gled locks, who had run to her, thrusting such a 
boon into her hands. Not till afterwards did she 
learn that they, like herself, were English captives. 
Even as she looked wonderingly after the little 
figures in the distance following the squaws up the 
hill, marvelling at such unwonted kindness in 
Indian children, a Nipmuck contrived to steal one 
of her precious ears of corn. But the Indian with 
the horse liver, moved by her hungry pleadings, 
gave her a small piece of his meat. 

Submit and Prudence, watching in the distance, 
saw her trying to roast this flesh in the fire out- 
side the Nipmucks’ lodge. They saw an Indian 
come and seize half of the poor morsel. Then 
they saw the starved woman cram down the rest, 
bloody and half raw as it was, lest she lose that 
too. 

“ Poor woman ! ” said Submit, tears in her eyes. 
u She is more starved than we.” 

“ In the morn w r e will carry her somewhat to 
eat, e’en if we steal it,” said Prudence, full of pity 
for Mrs. Rowlandson, and anger at her treatment. 

But early next morning the Nipmucks bore Mrs. 
Rowlandson away, taking the path down to the 
Connecticut, going to join Philip, who wtis said to 
be encamped with a large body of Indians on the 
west side of the river, above Squakeag. The girls 
forgot Mrs. Rowlandson’s sorrows when they 


TO CANADA. 143 

learned to their dismay that they too were to be 
borne away, they knew not whither. 

The Nipmucks’ triumphant stories of their suc- 
cesses at Lancaster and elsewhere in the east ; the 
arts of Philip, whose emissaries constantly came 
and went between his camp and Squakeag ; the 
opening spring, and the belief that but few garrison 
soldiers were now in the settlements below, — all 
inspired the Indians with the feeling that the time 
was ripe for completing the work begun the pre- 
vious summer, and driving out or destroying the 
white settlers in the Connecticut Valley. But 
powder was imperatively necessary. The hostility 
of the Maquas closed the path to Fort Orange. It 
was therefore resolved to take some of their cap- 
tives and packages of beaver skins to Canada. The 
French were known to be sworn enemies of the Eng- 
lish, and disposed to aid the Indians against them. 

It was a dreary March morning, with a raw east- 
wind blowing. Wampanosea and Awonusk gave 
the girls new strong moccasins made of moose- 
skin, and pouches filled with nocake ; then bid 
them strap on their backs heavy rolls of fur. Pe- 
tomanch and Wadnummin, also laden with heavy 
bundles of furs, stood outside the wigwam, evi- 
dently prepared for a long journey. 

“ Maconoquah and Kippenoquah go far away,” 
said old Awonusk. 

“ Oh, whither do they take us ? ” cried Prudence. 


144 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“We no want to go away, Awonusk,” pleaded 
Submit. “Maconoquah would stay with her netop 
Awonusk.” 

“ Go, my children,” said old Awonusk. “ Have 
no fear. Awonusk dreamed last night that the 
Great Spirit stood in her wigwam and bid her tell 
the Indians to send the pale-faced girls to Canada. 
Wurregen . 1 The Great Spirit told Awonusk so. 
Awonusk dreams true.” 

To Canada ! The girls knew of Canada only 
vaguely as a dreadful place far to the north, in- 
habited by Indians and French Papists, the latter 
regarded by the Puritans as even more certainly 
children of the evil one than the Indians them- 
selves. Were they to be dragged to this terrible 
land ? 

They followed their masters out of the camp in 
bitter tears, as if leaving the happiest home, the 
Indian children running after them, mocking and 
teasing to the last, but old Awonusk calling after 
them, “Wurregen! Wurregen!” As they were 
crossing the brook, Moluntha, who had held his 
hand behind his back, now threw something at 
Prudence, shouting, — 

“ Take your pow-wow. Moluntha no keep it. 
Pow-wow kill Moluntha, maybe.” 

The object struck Prudence’s back and fell in 
the brook. 


1 It is well. 


TO CANADA. 


145 


“ Oh, Prudence,” cried Submit, “ 9 1 is thy Bible ! ” 

Prudence hastily splashed after her precious 
book, securing it before it had floated far, Mo- 
luntha and his comrades yelling derisively and 
throwing stones at the girls meantime. But no 
matter if a big stone did hit Prudence, making her 
arm black and blue ; she had her Bible again, or 
rather a fragment of it, for the covers were gone 
and many leaves. 

The girls were deeply impressed by this un- 
looked-for return of the Bible in their hour of 
sorest need. 

“ I cannot doubt that the spirit of the Lord 
hath worked on Moluntha’s fears, making him 
restore it to me,” said Prudence. 

“ ’T is surely a good omen,” said Submit. “ May- 
hap old Awonusk’s dream doth signify somewhat. 
For, Pruda, I have bethought me, perchance we can 
be ransomed more surely from Canada, than if 
still wandering about in the wilderness with the 
savages.” 

Thus, dark as all seemed, yet hope crept back into 
the two young hearts, giving the girls better courage 
to follow the Indians on the day’s tramp to the 
north along the east bank of the Connecticut. 

Towards night they saw on high ground across 
the river the many lights which indicated a large 
Indian camp. 1 Several canoes were going up and 

1 Probably near Vernon, Vermont. 

10 


146 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

down the river. Petomanch gave a call like the 
bark of a wolf. There was an answering signal, 
and one of the canoes paddled swiftly to the left 
shore, bearing the Indians and their captives over 
to Philip’s camp, for such it was. 

The girls were alarmed to see what a large body 
of savages was here assembled. 

“ I tremble for Hadley and all our settlements/ ’ 
whispered Prudence, “ when I look on this amazing 
crew of bloody heathen.” 

“ No doubt they are bent on the destruction of 
our settlements,” replied Submit. 

This fear was confirmed when they heard the 
Indian to whose wigwam their masters had taken 
them, talking with animated gestures of a speedy 
assault to be made on Nonotuck. This Indian 
took Petomanch and Wadnummin to Philip’s wig- 
wam, whence they returned bearing rich strings of 
wampum given them by Philip, and full of zeal for 
his plans. Then the , girls learned that they were 
actually in the camp of the dread King Philip, at 
whose name all New England was shuddering. 

The next morning, going out of the camp to the 
north, they had a glimpse of both Philip and Mrs. 
Rowlandson. The latter was sitting on the ground 
outside her master’s wigwam for better light, 
sewing on a boy’s shirt as well as her poor, bleared 
eyes permitted. Philip was talking to her about 
this garment which she was making for his boy, 


TO CANADA. 


147 


promising her money and tobacco in payment. 
The tobacco she could trade for food with the 
Indians. 

The girls were so frightened to be near the 
bloody monster, Philip, that they hurried on, 
making no attempt to speak with Mrs. Rowlandson. 
They were surprised to see that Philip looked much 
like other Indians, except that he wore richer 
ornaments. Had he been adorned with hoofs, 
horns, and tail, like the Satan of their primers, it 
would hardly have surprised them. 

On to the north the Indians now pressed as fast 
as their captives could travel. They followed up 
the Connecticut to the mouth of a small river 
running into it from the west , 1 whose course they 
travelled up towards high mountains 2 which the 
girls with sinking hearts saw looming formidably 
ahead. The country grew wilder, rougher, more 
savage. At last they were among the mountains. 
Hill upon hill towered around, hills from whose 
rugged sides white marble cropped, gleaming in 
the sunlight, unseen as yet by a white man’s eyes. 
These rocky hills looked darker and wilder because 
clothed with thick forests of hemlock, spruce, and 
pine, against whose background shone the slender 
stems of countless white birches, bare as yet of 
leaves. 

1 Later called Williams River, from the “ Redeemed Captive.” 

2 The Green Mountains. 


148 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

At night they encamped by some spring or 
brook, apparently the only human beings in the 
lonely, all-surrounding wilderness, lying on the 
ground listening, till weariness at last brought 
sleep, to the weird hoots of the owls, the distant 
howling of wolves, the snarls and calls of other 
wild beasts who scented from afar the human 
prey, but were kept at bay by the blazing fire 
which the two Indians took turns in maintaining 
all night. Some days they plodded on in a driv- 
ing rain which beat pitilessly on their bare heads 
protected only by the bear’s grease that matted 
their hair. Some days there was no food but 
scanty mouthfuls of nocake from their pouches. 
But still on and on went the seemingly endless 
tramp over mountains and torrents, through 
swamps and dense forests, to the northwest. 

At last they came down hill to a large brook 
which they were encouraged to see flowed towards 
the setting sun. High, pointed hills surrounded it. 
Its bed was full of big and little stones. Yet 
sometimes moccasins must come off, and the girls 
must wade down the bed of this brook for a long 
distance, so impenetrable was the thick tangle of 
laurel and other bushes each side its way. 

“ There is one good thing about this brook,” said 
Submit, one day, as they waded along its stony 
bottom, — “it tumbleth along so swiftly o’er its 
stones, its course must be down hill. So I trust 


TO CANADA. 


149 


we may be coming out of these wild mountains, 
where the travelling will be less wearisome.” 

“ And see, Submit,” said Prudence, “ the willows 
are pussying out ! And the sun beateth so hotly 
on my back. Spring corneth ; soon the nights will 
not be so dreary and chill.” 

So the little pilgrims tried to keep up each 
other’s courage. Seldom could they look into the 
tattered Bible. At night they were too utterly 
exhausted, and the flickering fire, blown about by 
the night wind sucking down the mountain gorges, 
gave too uncertain light. But it cheered them if 
possible to open it at random in the morning, ere 
setting out on the weary day’s march, taking the 
first verse their eye fell on as an omen for the 
day. 

The brook they followed emptied into a deep, 
full stream , 1 whose strong current swept swiftly 
on amid the hills. Now the girls’ lot grew easier, 
for this stream abounded in otter, which made 
food plenty. And here the Indians halted, and 
built a birch-bark canoe. Progress now was easy, 
a welcome rest to the footsore girls, as the canoe 
glided rapidly down the swift current. The hills 
grew lower and receded ; the mountains were 
behind them, and one day on their eyes broke the 
vision of a great, beautiful sheet of blue water, 
stretching far away to the north . 2 

1 Otter Creek. 2 Lake Champlain. 


150 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


“ It is like the sea ! ” exclaimed Prudence, gazing 
on this unknown lake. 

“ Oh, how wondrous beautiful it is ! ” said Submit, 
looking across the blue lake to the great mountains 
on its western shore, rising peak upon peak, chain 
after chain coming into view as they glided on. 

“ I knew not that the world was so large,” added 
Submit. “ Verily we seem lost in it, it is so great, 
and we are so small, like little ants floating on a 
leaf in the Connecticut.” 

Prudence shared Submit’ s feeling of their helpless 
insignificance. But looking up, she saw a flock of 
crows flapping heavily over, their “caw, caw,” 
sounding cheerfully springlike. This reminded her 
of their verse that morning. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ but dost not remember our 
verse this morning, Submit, said, ‘ Consider the 
ravens : for they neither sow nor reap : which 
neither have storehouse nor barn ; and God feedeth 
them. How much more are ye better than the 
fowls ? ’ I can but feel that God doth not forget 
us, though we be so small.” 

The creek, after winding the last of its course 
tamely enough among meadows and swamps brown 
with last summer’s growth of rank, tall wild grass, 
poured its waters into the lake. Petomanch and 
Wadnummin turned the canoe’s bow to the north, 
and struck off up the lake, keeping near the right 
shore, where at night they landed and encamped. 


CHAPTER XI. 


John’s capture. 

I N- the frenzied tumult following the battle of 
Peskeompskut or Turner s Falls, John suc- 
ceeded in fighting his way to White Bess and 
mounted her, though with difficulty, the frightened 
mare plunging and snorting wildly in frantic terror. 
Hardly had he mounted when two Indians in hot 
pursuit fired on him. One shot wounded John’s 
left arm, causing him to drop his bridle ; the other 
grazed White Bess’s neck. She gave a great bound, 
throwing John violently to the ground, and galloped 
away after the other horses. 

Stunned as he was, John’s right hand still 
clutched his snaphance, and he would have fired 
upon the Indians, who now fell fiercely upon him, 
but found he could not use his left hand. One of 
the Indians seized John’s hair, and brandishing his 
scalping-knife, made a slight cut on his forehead, 
when the other Indian interposed, saying something 
which stopped his comrade. Hurriedly binding 
John’s hands behind him, the Indians lashed him 
to a tree, and bounded away like deer in the direc- 


152 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

tion where the sharp reports of muskets, the cries 
of the English, and the whoops and yells of the 
Indians showed the thick of the fight to be raging. 

The morning sun shone dimly through the blue 
smoke of gunpowder. Prone on the trampled, 
bloody ground amid the broken bushes, lay bodies 
of the dead and wounded, some already scalped. 
The din of the battle grew faint and far away. 
John began to come out of the tense excitement 
which had made him oblivious of his wound and 
to realize his critical situation. 

“ Doubtless the bloody wolves have tied me to 
this tree to torture and burn me when they come 
back,” he thought. “I must free myself and 
escape before they return.” 

Exerting all his young strength, John struggled 
desperately to loosen his bonds, to break them by 
sheer force, to wriggle his right hand out from the 
strips of tough bark that cut into his wrists. But 
all his efforts were in vain, only increasing the 
smart and throbbing of his wounded arm. 

After what seemed endless hours to John, he 
heard afar the Indians returning through the 
woods, giving the scalp halloo in triumph. Then 
bands of them emerged from the forest, some with 
fierce yells waving bloody scalps on high, some 
laden with coats, guns, caps, and other English 
spoils, some dragging along captives. Among 
these unhappy men John recognized Experience 


John’s captuke. 153 

Hinsdale and others of his old neighbors and 
comrades. 

As Hinsdale was hauled past John’s tree, he 
groaned, — 

66 Alas, John, is it thou ? We are in sorry case, 
and I look — ” 

Here the Indian who held Hinsdale slapped him 
on the mouth as a gentle hint to be silent. 

John’s captors now returned, but made no motion 
to release him. They had more pressing business 
on hand. It was John’s doom to be forced to 
look helplessly on and see Hinsdale and others of 
the prisoners burned alive, after shocking tortures, 
the Indians jeering at the moans and cries of the 
sufferers. 

“ Englishmen squaws, no braves,” said they, 
scoffingly. 

John, his heart sick with horror and vain rage 
at these cruelties, expected every moment that his 
turn would come, and braced himself to meet his 
fate manfully. 

“ I can die but once,” he though!. “ I T1 not 
please the fiends by screeching, whate’er they do 
to me.” 

He saw his captors approaching. 

“ My time hath come,” thought John. “Now, 
0 Lord, help me to stand fast ! ” 

As the Indians advanced, one of them threw 
his tomahawk at John. It glided close past hi$ 


154 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

head, fastening a lock of his hair into the slit in 
the tree-trunk where it stuck. The other Indian’s 
tomahawk flew swiftly after the first, lodging just 
below it. 

John winced a little, instinctively, but did not 
flinch, gazing boldly at the Indians, making no 
outcry or appeal. 

This conduct seemed to please the Indians, and 
he who had first captured John said, — 

“ Ho ho ! English boy young brave.” 

The Indians unbound John, stripping oft all his 
clothes save his shirt and trousers. They now 
hastened away in small bands, scattering in differ- 
ent directions, that no clearly defined trail might 
be left for the pursuing party of English soldiers 
sure to be sent after them when the remnant 
of Captain Turner’s army should reach Hadley. 
Most of the prisoners had been slain to gratify 
the thirst for blood and vengeance excited to fury 
by the battle. 

“ I wonder what worse fate they save me for,” 
thought John, as he walked along, his hands bound 
behind him, in a file of Indians moving to the 
north along the banks of the Connecticut. They 
strode on in the silence always observed by In- 
dians on a march. As they walked fleetly, tire- 
lessly, on and on, John, who had eaten nothing 
that day, nor since his lunch the night before the 
battle, and whose wound bled enough to add to 


John’s capture. 


155 


his faintness, with great difficulty kept up with 
the file, often feeling that he could not take 
another step ; he must fall out, and lie down. 
But another wounded prisoner who gave out in 
this way was instantly killed, his scalp ripped off:, 
and his body left beside the Indian path on the 
river’s shore for wild beasts to devour. The love 
of life is instinctive, and John summoned all his 
will power still to stagger on. 

He wondered why the face of his captor seemed 
familiar. At length, in spite of the war-paint that 
made it hideous, he recognized Umpanchala, the 
Indian he had seen trying to buy a gun in Major 
Pynchon’s warehouse, when he and his cousin Sam 
had taken their pleasant trip to Springfield, in the 
happy days of peace that seemed so long, long ago. 

“ I wonder where Sam is to-night,” he thought, 
“ and what became of Jonathan and Stephen ? I 
trust they are not in so sad case as mine.” 

Umpanchala had a gun now, for which he had 
paid the Dutch at Fort Orange roundly with a 
heavy pack of beaver-skins. As night fell, he 
made good use of it, bringing down a wildcat 
which his keen eye saw high up in a tree-top, in 
spite of the wealth of new leaves covering the 
boughs thickly. 

The Indians had eaten nothing that day. Hav- 
ing marched so far as to feel safe in stopping, they 
made a fire and hastily cooked the wildcat, if the 


156 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

process of scorching by the open fire can be called 
cooking. Only a small morsel of the half-raw 
meat fell to John’s share, but it relieved somewhat 
his faintness, and the short halt was also a rest 
and relief. 

Again the Indians pressed on by the faint light 
of the glimmering stars, through the dark forest, 
through brooks and tangled swamps, in paths well 
known to them, reaching Squakeag about midnight. 
Umpanchala, who claimed John as his own captive, 
took him into his wigwam, and signified that he was 
to lie down on the ground. He then tied John’s 
outstretched legs and arms fast to four stakes 
driven in the ground, to prevent the possibility of 
his escape. 

John was so exhausted that, in spite of his un- 
comfortable position, he fell into a deep sleep, 
sleeping heavily until early morning. He dreamed 
he was at home, and that his father called him to 
get up. Trying to turn over, he woke, to find 
himself unable to stir hand or foot, and to realize 
his unhappy situation. 

“ ’T is doubtful if I ere see the light of another 
sun,” thought the captive boy, as the first rays 
of the rising sun penetrated the crevices of the 
wigwam. 

A squaw now came in, unbound him, rubbed his 
stiffened limbs to restore circulation, and helped 
him to rise. She also brought him a large bowl 


John’s capture. 


157 


of venison broth, which John felt a great kind- 
ness, and drank with hearty relish, feeling so 
revived after it that he thought, “ An it were 
not for this poor sore arm, I should feel almost 
well again.” 

He soon learned that the bowl of broth was but 
a dubious kindness, being intended merely to 
strengthen him for running the gauntlet, and pos- 
sible torture afterwards. Umpanchala had not yet 
decided his captive’s fate. He would be governed 
by John’s conduct in the coming trial. He now 
came for John, and took him out into the large 
open space in the centre of the camp. 

Here all the Indians in the camp were gathered, 
men, women, and children, evidently animated by 
joyful anticipations, their whoops and yells filling 
the air with an unearthly din. All bore weapons, — 
some tomahawks ; others clubs, whips, and sticks. 
Even the little boys were gathering stones, while 
the Indian girls leaped and screeched for joy. 

John did not know what all this excitement 
meant, though he mistrusted it boded no good to 
him. The Indians, on their part, whooped louder 
than ever at sight of the pale-faced English boy in 
the grasp of Umpanchala. They formed them- 
selves in two lines about a rod apart, extending 
a half-mile or more, to a large white birch-tree. 
Another prisoner, whom John recognized as one 
of Captain Turner’s soldiers, was set to run the 


158 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

gauntlet first. John saw with sorrow that a 
wound in the thigh was like greatly to disable the 
poor fellow in his race for life. 

Even as he started to run, the soldier tripped 
and fell. As he struggled to rise, some of the 
little boys threw sand in his eyes, with whoops 
and capers of delight, feeling themselves great 
braves like their fathers. Half blinded, the man 
staggered on. John’s heart beat with pity and 
indignation to the bursting point, it seemed, as 
he saw the Indians flog, strike, hack the poor fel- 
low as he limped on, until at last he dropped and 
lay helpless ere reaching the tree. Insensible, his 
bleeding body was dragged aside out of the lines, 
and thrown contemptuously down, while the In- 
dians, animated by this agreeable beginning of the 
morning’s sport, turned with eager anticipation to 
John. 

Umpanchala made John understand that if he 
reached the birch-tree alive, Indian custom would 
allow none to touch him, adding, — 

“ Run now. Run quick.” 

John did not need this advice. Putting forth 
all his youthful strength, fired by hatred of the 
Indians and their cruelties, he bounded into the 
lines and away down them like a deer pursued by 
hunters. His swiftness enabled him to escape 
many blows, but not all, he receiving knocks and 
cuts that would have told on him more severely 




















































* 












































































f 
















I 



















I 














» 

































* 










John’s capture. 


159 


but for the intense excitement and determination 
filling his soul. As he neared the tree, a repulsive 
old hag leaped out with fiendish screeches to 
strike the head of this bold youth with her club. 
This was too much to be borne. John gave a fly- 
ing kick as he shot by, sending the squaw tum- 
bling on her back. A tremendous shout went up 
from the crowd at this. John put forth his last 
atom of strength and threw himself panting at 
the foot of the white birch, his arms around its 
trunk. 

His shirt was cut and half torn from his back, 
which was scored and bleeding in many places, 
while his wounded arm was intensely painful. He 
lay under the tree as he fell, not caring much what 
became of him, thinking to himself, — 

“They will surely kill me now. But I care 
not, so they are speedy, I am so sore bestead.” 

Although John did not know it, the kick he 
had given the old squaw, far from angering the 
Indians, as he supposed, had raised him high in 
their estimation, as a youth of promising spirit. 
Umpanchala came to him, as John thought, to 
drag him to new tortures or to death. But to his 
surprise, Umpanchala spoke kindly, raised him up, 
and aided the exhausted boy to his wigwam, where 
he made him lie down on a bearskin. A squaw 
came and washed his bleeding back, bathed his 
suffering arm, and bound large oak leaves on his 


160 THE YOUNG PUKITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

wounds, soothing them not a little. Then she 
brought a bowl of black fluid, a decoction of balsam- 
fir twigs, saying, — 

“ Drink. Make brave English boy well.’ , 

John swallowed the bitter drink, which the high 
fever coming on him made almost acceptable. 
He fell asleep, his last conscious thought, — 

“ They but nurse me for fresh tortures. ’T is 
plain my end is nigh, an the Lord be not pleased 
to come to my rescue speedily.” 

He slept he knew not how long. When he 
woke, striving to rise, he found himself too weak. 
An old squaw who was standing over him said 
kindly, — 

“ Chon Ellis lie still.” 

Surprised at hearing his own name, John raised 
his swollen, heavy eyes and regarded the old 
squaw more closely. It was old Awonusk, who 
had often stopped at his father’s to sell her 
baskets or for a meal. 

“ Awonusk pity kind Goodwife Ellis. Good- 
wife Ellis’s heart like heavy stone,” said the old 
squaw, shaking her head sorrowfully. 

Tears filled John’s eyes, at thought of his lov- 
ing mother and the dear home he should never 
again see. 

Awonusk had a wooden bowl in her hand, 
which proved to contain stewed raccoon, the best 
food she had. She now offered it to John, saying : 


John’s capture. 


161 


"Chon have no fears. Chon eat much, get 
well fast.” 

Kind words, and the sight of a friendly face 
associated with Hadley, even if but an Indian 
squaw’s, were a certain comfort. John forced 
down some of the raccoon stew, saying, as he 
handed back the bowl to Awonusk, sitting in 
Indian fashion cross-legged on the ground beside 
him, — 

“ No good for me to eat. Indians will kill me 
speedily.” 

“No, no, no,” said Awonusk, shaking her head 
energetically. “ Indians no kill Chon. Make Chon 
a great brave.” 

What this meant John knew not, but Awo- 
nusk’s words and the fact that he was still unmo- 
lested seemed reassuring, and he soon fell asleep 
again ; Awonusk throwing over him a coarse 
homespun blanket, the spoil of some English 
house. 

The next day finding John much stronger, able 
to sit up, Awonusk electrified him by saying, — 

“ Chon’s little yellow-haired sister and Widow 
Burnham’s slave here in Squakeag.” 

“ Oh, where are they ? I must see them,” 
cried John, leaping up, and trying to push past 
Awonusk. 

Awonusk, calmly sitting still, said, — 

“No here noiv. Petomanch and Wadnummin- 
11 


162 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

take English girls far away, when the snow melted, 
to Canada.” 

“ How long ago?” asked John, sinking back 
on his bearskin bed. 

“When the snow melted, — two moons,” said 
Awonusk. 

“ Then, if alive, they must be in Canada ere 
this,” thought John. “ Poor little Pruda, that she 
should come to this ! How did the child, timor- 
ous as she is, keep alive so long among these wild, 
filthy savages ? ” 

He asked many questions, and in spite of her 
broken English, he learned enough of the captive 
girls’ life at Squakeag to know that they had not 
been unkindly treated. 

“ Doubtless they are more merciful to young 
maids than to lads,” thought John. 

Awonusk told him too about the mysteri- 
ous bunch of paper covered with crooked black 
marks, brought back from the burning of Spring- 
field, which the English girls had seemed so to 
prize. 

“ Big magic,” she said impressively, pointing 
upward. “ Pow-wow. Tell about Great White 
Spirit who lives in sky, up, up.” 

John knew by this description that the mystic 
book was doubtless a Bible. 

“In truth ’twas a.stroke of mercy that the poor 
children had that comfort. Doubtless the Scrip- 


John’s capture. 163 

ture promises oft cheered their fainting hearts,” 
thought John. 

At first it seemed hard that he and Prudence 
could not have met, when a little delay would 
have brought them together. 

“ How Pruda would have rejoiced ! ” he thought. 
“ Yet I know not but ’t was best she had gone ere 
I came, for ’t would have killed her to see me run 
the gauntlet. And what further tortures await 
me, I know not. It seemeth they kill not all 
their prisoners. But I dare not hope. Doubtless 
when I am stronger, I shall see what fresh tor- 
ments they can devise.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


JOHN BECOMES AN INDIAN. 

WEEK passed drearily enough. John gained 



A gradually, and had recovered considerable 
strength, when, one morning, Urnpanchala came 
to him and ordered him to strip off the remnants of 
his shirt. Urnpanchala, wearing his usual grim ex- 
pression, drew his sharp scalp-knife from his belt. 

“ My time hath come,” thought John, turning 
pale. 

Urnpanchala, whatever his designs, did not begin 
by taking John’s scalp. -He contented himself with 
hacking and hewing his hair, half cutting, half 
pulling it out, giving John such pain that he almost 
wished Urnpanchala had taken the whole scalp at 
one stroke. But John bore it without outcry, 
having determined not to give the Indians the 
pleasure of hearing the white man’s groans. 

Urnpanchala left two or three long locks on the 
crown of John’s head, the scalp-locks, which the 
Indians wear to show defiance and scorn of ene- 
mies, a tacit invitation to them to attempt taking 
the scalp if they dare. These scalp-locks Umpan- 
chala bound with a band, making them stand up- 


JOHN BECOMES AN INDIAN. 


165 


right in Indian fashion. He then led John down 
to the brook, where a crowd of Indians were 
gathered. 

“ He hath decked me out for drowning,” thought 
John, certain that a cruel death awaited him. 

Umpanchala led John down into the brook, and 
left him at the mercy of several energetic young 
squaws, who began dashing kettlefuls of cold water 
over him, rubbing him whenever they could get 
at him. John, drenched and gasping for breath, 
made angry resistance, pushing down now one, 
now another of his laughing tormentors, which 
only increased the merriment of the Indians look- 
ing on from the bank. 

When John, in spite of his resistance, had been 
thoroughly soaked and rubbed, as his glowing red 
skin testified, Umpanchala came to the rescue, and 
led him dripping back to his wigwam. Here he 
made John put on a full Indian costume, fringed 
leggins of deerskin, beaded moccasins, and a long 
deerskin shirt, fringed with hair, belted at the waist. 
Around the neck of the disgusted John Umpanchala 
put strings of wampum, and armlets of the same 
on his right arm above the elbow. Into John’s 
scalp-lock, he stuck eagles’ and hawks’ feathers, 
finishing by painting and staining John’s face. A 
stripe of green decorated John from the mouth 
down, a band of red was laid across his eyes, and 
streaks of black and white striped his cheeks and 


166 THE YOUNG PUllITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

forehead. Ornamental patterns in yellow were 
laid on his chest and arms. 

“ What meaneth this foolishness, I wonder ? ” 
thought John, thinking it wise, however, to make 
no objection. 

“Good Indian,’ ’ said Umpanchala, viewing his 
work when done with much satisfaction, thinking 
John’s appearance vastly improved. 

He then made a speech whose purport, as nearly 
as John could understand, was this : — 

Umpanchala, pleased with the spirit shown by 
his captive, had resolved to adopt him in place of 
his dead brother, Wawahoo. Wawahoo had been 
a great brave. Wawahoo was now brought back 
to life. The white blood had all been washed from 
the captive’s veins. He was now an Indian, 
adopted into the tribe, to be treated in every respect 
as one of themselves. He might dismiss all fear. 
He was now brother to Umpanchala. 

“ T is but some plot to hoodwink me,” thought 
John, unable to believe that he was to be well 
treated. “ I will keep a sharp out-look on them, 
in spite of all this fine talk.” 

He did not know the universal custom, among 
all tribes of Indians, of making up for the losses 
incurred in their constant wars by this practice of 
adopting any captive found worthy. When their 
vengeance had been satisfied, and the spirits of 
their dead appeased by the death and torture of 


JOHN BECOMES AN INDIAN. 167 

enough victims, the younger captives among the 
boys and youths, especially those giving promise 
of bravery, were saved to be formally adopted into 
the tribe. The names of valiant dead warriors 
were given them, whose places they were expected 
to fill, showing themselves worthy of their new 
names. Captive girls were retained to be married 
into the tribe. Young white children were always 
kept, if possible, and reared in Indian ways. 

The sun had set when Umpanchala finished 
John’s adornment. He said, — 

“Come and eat. Umpanchala give big feast to 
welcome back to life his brother Wawahoo.” 

He conducted John to a large fire, around which 
sat gravely the chief men of the camp. To them 
Umpanchala made a speech, stating his purpose to 
adopt John to restore to life his brother Wawahoo, 
a speech received with many “ Ho ho’s” of approval. 

A big kettle of boiling venison hung over the 
fire, and large pieces stuck on pointed sticks roasted 
around it. The savory meat smelt most appetizing 
to the hungry John, and also, evidently, to half-a- 
dozen lean, starved curs, who hovered around the 
circle, constantly whipped and driven away by the 
children. 

Umpanchala presented John with a pipe, whose 
long stem of hollow reed was decorated with bright 
feathers and strings of wampum, and with a tobacco 
pouch made of a mink-skin dressed whole ; head, 


168 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

paws, and tail still attached. In front the mink’s 
head hung over backwards, showing the white rows 
of tiny, sharp teeth. 

John had never “ drank tobacco,” and was 
therefore greatly relieved to find that at present 
he was allowed to thrust his pipe in his belt, and 
only required to take a puff or two, in sign of 
friendship, from a much decorated pipe passed 
from mouth to mouth around the circle. 

But Umpanchala now told John that he was ex- 
pected to sing and dance, to show his joy at his 
adoption. 

The son of Goodman Ellis knew nothing of 
dancing, and had been taught to look upon that 
exercise with horror, as peculiarly pleasing to 
Satan, in fact one of his favorite devices for en- 
snaring youthful souls. But he judged it not wise 
to refuse. 

An Indian rattled a dried squash filled with 
stones, in time to the thumping of an Indian drum, 
and to this music John skipped around the fire, 
throwing his feet awkwardly about, thinking, — 

“What if my father could look on me now, 
tricked out like a savage, capering in this silly 
fashion to please the filthy Indians ? He would 
deem Satan had his clutch on me, as verily it may 
well be he hath.” 

The Indians grunted approval of John’s energy ; 
but Umpanchala, anxious for the family credit, 


JOHN BECOMES AN INDIAN. 169 

stopped him, saying, “Wawahoo no dance like 
Indians; must dance so” and went in his turn 
around the fire, bent half over, stamping the 
ground, moving his arms up and down as if knead- 
ing bread, grunting out in hoarse, guttural accents 
an Indian song, which John judged, by the spark- 
ling eyes of the warriors, recounted the brave deeds 
of forefathers. The air was only a monotonous 
rising and falling of the voice. As he went thus 
round and round the fire, whose light flashed on 
his fierce, painted red face, he seemed to John 
some uncanny wild creature, but half human. 

Umpanchala, his song ended, sat down cross- 
legged and resumed his pipe, saying, — 

“ Wawahoo dance and sing.” 

The only songs John knew were the psalms so 
constantly sung at home and in church. Thinking, 
“ Verily, ’t is as Scripture saith : They that carried 
me away captive desired of me a song,” again he 
circled around the fire, imitating closely Umpan- 
chala’s attitude and stamping, singing with his 
heart the words of the Twenty-first Psalm. 

As the Indians rattled their gourd and thumped 
their drum, John’s strong young voice rang out in 
these words : — 

“ Let thine enemies feele thy force, 
and those that thee withstand : 

Finde out thy foes and let them feele 
the power of thy right hand. 


170 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ And like an Oven burne them, Lord, 
in fiery flame and fume : 

Thine anger shall destroy them all, 
and fire shall them consume. 

“ For why ? much mischief did they muse, 
against thy holy name : 

Yet did they fayle and had no power 
for to perform the same.” 

The Indians, little dreaming that John’s song 
was really a prayer for a visitation of vengeance 
on themselves, and catching its bloodthirsty spirit, 
expressed their approval by cries of “ Ho ho,” as 
John stopped at last, out of breath. 

Fortunately he could rest now, for the squaws 
began to serve the venison. Umpanchala’s squaw 
had given John a bark plate and a wooden spoon 
to take to the feast. All the Indians had brought 
their own plates and bowls. They now began eat- 
ing with a greasiness and greediness that almost 
took away John’s appetite, keen as it was. But 
he thought, — 

“ If I mean to make my escape, as I surely will, 
with God’s help, I must keep up my strength.” 

Trying to ignore the Indians holding their meat 
in their hands, biting and tearing it with their 
strong white teeth like so many dogs, John ate 
until he was satisfied. Then he naturally stopped. 
But a squaw heaped more roast venison on his 
bark plate, 


JOHN BECOMES AN INDIAN. 171 

“ No, no,” said John, pushing it away. “ Wa- 
wahoo eat plenty.” 

Umpanchala glared at him angrily. 

“ Wawahoo bad Indian ; despise his brother’s 
feast. This is an eat-a$ feast ; must eat all. 
Great Spirit angry if no eat all” he said, with 
angry emphasis. 

John thus learned that a strong point of Indian 
etiquette is never to refuse food. Each guest must 
eat as long as food is offered. He mumbled, per- 
force, at the now distasteful meat, and was heartily 
glad when the kettle was at last borne away, and 
he saw the Indians rubbing their greasy hands on 
their own arms or bodies and heads, one using the 
back of a shaggy dog as his napkin. 

This lank, half-starved dog was sniffing so 
eagerly about, that John gladly threw him the 
fragment of bone at which he was pretending to 
gnaw. The dog sprang for the bone, but so did 
Umpanchala, snatching it away and throwing it in 
the fire, muttering something John did not under- 
stand. Later he learned that the Indians believe 
if the bones of wild animals are given to dogs, the 
animals will know it, and, thus insulted, will 
henceforth refuse to be captured. All such bones 
must be either burned or buried. 

Now a war-dance began. When it waxed fast 
and furious, John slipped away to his wigwam. 
The Indians, John knew, were goading themselves 


172 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

on for another descent on the settlements. San- 
chnmachu made a speech, in which he told the 
Indians that the blood of their relations and 
friends slain by the English at Peskeompskut 
Falls cried aloud for vengeance. The spirits of 
the dead could not be at rest. The braves had 
made the English run like sheep after that battle. 
Should they not follow up this victory ere the 
English recovered strength ? 

The next morning a band of Indians hideous in 
war-paint left Squakeag for the south. There 
remained in camp only the old men, the women 
and children. 

John, whose mind was intent on escape, hoped 
this might be his opportunity. But he was too 
closely watched by the old men and squaws. He 
idled about the camp, hardly knowing how to pass 
the weary hours. 

It was the last day of May. The green depths 
of the woods, fresh with new foliage, were lighted 
up with the pink of the wild azalea, the creamy 
tassels of the wild cherry, the white stars of the 
dogwood. From every mossy rock nodded the 
wild columbine. Even the sombre pines and hem- 
locks hung out tips and tassels of tender green 
with a flower-like effect. 

One of these perfect May days, John stood on 
the brow of the hill listening to the joyous songs 
of the birds, inhaling the sweet air, and looking 


JOHN BECOMES AN INDIAN. 173 

off over the fair meadows below, and the hills and 
mountains rising beyond the river in picturesque, 
broken line against the sky. 

“ Verily, it seemeth as though there were no 
trouble in the world,” thought John with heavy 
heart, thinking of his own situation, and the ter- 
rible scenes through which his friends below might 
even now be passing. 

The squaws, who had planted large fields of 
corn and beans on the meadow, were giving their 
crops the first hoeing. The season had been 
favorable ; the crops were well advanced ; and so 
were the weeds, which thrived prolifically in the 
strong, new soil. Some of the squaws had iron 
hoes, some had Indian hoes of sharp stones bound 
with withes to handles, and some grubbed with 
their hands. 

It annoyed John to see honest work done so 
clumsily. 

“ Having naught else to pass the time, verily 
I ’ll e’en go down and show the wenches how to 
hoe corn,” he thought. 

Submit’s old mistress, Osawshequah, readily 
gave the captive her hoe; and John, amid the loud 
laughter of the squaws, made it fly, laying the 
weeds low with an energy that astonished the 
women. 

Suddenly old Paumseet appeared on the scene, 
looking much displeased. He scolded the squaws, 


174 THE YOUNG PUKITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

who huddled back to work, and took John away, 
telling him forcibly that never again must he dis- 
grace his name by menial work. 

“Wawahoo takes the place of a great brave. 
Braves no wv>rk like squaws,” said Paumseet, with 
contempt. 

“ An they bid me do naught worse than refrain 
from hoeing corn, I can bear it,” thought John. 
“ But, oh, how gladly would I be out on Fort 
Meadow now at work with my father, and old 
Watch sitting by ! ” 

Tears filled his eyes. 

“ I must not think of home o’er much, or ’t will 
unman me,” he thought, as he dashed away the 
tears. “ God hath wondrously preserved me thus 
far, and I trust He will yet aid my escape.” 

A day or two later loud whoops from the 
southern woods announced the return of the war- 
party. With sick heart John looked on the scalps 
they brought. But he rejoiced to see that they 
were few, and that, though the Indians brought 
much meat, the spoil of English cattle and sheep 
slain, evidently they had met with a great repulse. 
A council was held the night of their return, and 
the next morning the camp was broken up, and a 
hurried departure made, the Indians dispersing in 
different directions. Squakeag was deserted. The 
bare poles of the deserted wigwams standing on 
the upland, and the abandoned crops still growing 


JOHN BECOMES AN INDIAN. 175 

in the surrounding wilderness, were the only signs 
of human habitation. 

Umpancliala joined a band which went towards 
the Hudson. They took the same path Submit 
and Prudence had travelled up the valley of the 
Pocumtuck River, over Hoosac Mountain, and 
down the Hoosac, but going farther west than 
Petomanch had ventured, almost to the fertile 
border of the Hudson valley. Umpanchala had no 
desire to be a too close neighbor to the fierce 
Mohawks. 

Most reluctantly did John’s feet travel this 
path. He watched for a chance to escape, but in 
vain. He saw himself dragged helplessly on into 
the western wilderness, apparently a hopeless dis- 
tance from home. But John was not wholly 
discouraged. 

“ My time will yet come,” he thought. “ Mean- 
time ’t is well to keep the good will of the 
Indians while I am forced to stay with them.” 

So he adopted Indian ways, and took his part in 
hunt, games, or fishing, with a cheerfulness and 
energy that raised Umpanchala’ s pride in his 
brother. 

When settled in the Hoosac valley, the squaws 
patiently planted the little seed corn brought with 
them, in hopes of a late crop. Canoes were built, 
and all the activities of Indian life resumed. 

One rainy June night, the Indians, having noth- 


176 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

ing to do but huddle in their wigwams, lay down 
to sleep early. Intense quiet brooded over the 
camp, hardly broken by the rushing of the river, 
the driving of the rain, the moaning of the wind 
in the forest around. 

Far from being sleepy, John had never felt more 
wide awake. He had noticed, ere darkness fell, 
that Umpanchala, grown careless since John 
seemed to have become wholly one with the 
Indians, instead of placing John’s snaphance for 
safe keeping under his head as formerly, laid it 
across the poles above him in the top of the wig- 
wam, where, with slight effort, John thought he 
could reach it. 

“I will be off this night,” resolved John. 

He pretended to sleep, and lay with closed eyes 
but quick-beating heart waiting through what 
seemed the never-ending hours of black darkness, 
till a hardly perceptible tinge of grayness, herald 
of the advancing dawn, enabled him to see his way 
about the wigwam, where no fire burned in 
summer. 

The heavy breathing around him, the broken 
ejaculations in dreams, showed all to be asleep. 
Rising cautiously, lest he disturb the boys lying 
close each side of him, John glided along by 
inches, reaching up over Umpanchala’s head 
towards the gun. His hand touched the snap- 
hance. It was his ! 


JOHN BECOMES AN INDIAN. 


177 


Grasping it, he turned, to see, to his horror, the 
skin over the wigwam’s entrance moving gently, 
lifting, some dark, crouching object stealing in. 

“ They have discovered me ! ” thought John. 

Then terrific war-whoops rent the silence ; a 
gun blazed into the wigwam. The sleeping 
Indians leaped to their feet, seizing weapons while 
yet half awake, crying, “ The Maquas ! The 
Maquas ! ” 

Their most dreaded foe was indeed upon them. 


12 


CHAPTER XIII. 


AMONG THE MOHAWKS. 

A PROWLING band of Mohawks had dis- 
covered the Pocumtuck camp, and stealth- 
ily surrounded it. Amid the fierce war-whoops of 
the Mohawks, the answering yells of the Pocum- 
tucks, the shrill cries of squaws and children, the 
yelp of dogs, the banging and crashing of guns, 
the awful struggle and turmoil, John fought as 
desperately as if he had been in good truth the 
brave Wawahoo come again to life. He had 
always heard that the Mohawks were the fiercest, 
the most cruel, the most to be dreaded of all 
Indian foes. If he fell into their hands, he felt 
that only a death of lingering torture awaited 
him. 

“ At least, I will sell my life dearly,” he 
thought. “ ’T is better to die fighting than to fall 
into their hands alive.” 

Never had his trusty snaphance done such 
execution. More than one Mohawk fell under 
its well-directed shots. At last a tall, powerful 
Indian fell on John. He was overmastered, his 


AMONG THE MOHAWKS. 179 

gun snatched away, his hands bound behind him, 
— almost in an instant, it seemed. 

The Pocumtucks, outnumbered and taken by 
surprise, were soon overcome. Many were slain ; 
the rest, less fortunate, were made prisoners. 
John saw Umpanchala, bound like himself, cov- 
ered with blood, looking grimly on with no out- 
ward sign of feeling, while the hated Maquas 
rifled and stripped the wigwams, scalped the dead 
and dying, killing Umpanchala’s pappoose, and an 
old squaw whose moans and laments were offen- 
sive to her captors. 

Making huge bundles of the wigwams’ spoils, * 
the Mohawks bound these on the backs of their 
unhappy prisoners, many of whom were wounded 
and little able to walk, even unburdened. As the 
sun rose, they moved off westward with prisoners 
and spoils, exulting in their victory, even though 
it had cost some Mohawk blood. 

When John started to walk, to his surprise he 
found he was lame, walking with difficulty. He 
had received a wound in the thigh unnoticed in the 
fury and excitement of the fearful struggle. His 
buckskin legging was soaked with blood, and the 
wound now asserted itself, throbbing and burning. 
The limping John lagged and fell behind the pro- 
cession. A tall, fierce Mohawk with blood-stained 
face waved his tomahawk over John’s head, say- 
ing something in threatening tone, which John 


180 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

well understood, though he knew not the words. 
His heart was full of bitterness and despair. 

“ God hath deserted me,” he thought. “ Per- 
chance I may as well lie down and die now as 
ever.” 

But the instinctive love of life triumphed, and 
exerting all his will and strength, he managed to 
keep up with the straggling file which followed 
down an Indian footpath beside the winding Hoo- 
sac until, towards sundown, the hills fell away 
into a fair valley, through which glided a broad 
river unknown to John, — the Hudson. 

The Mohawks camped on the east shore of the 
river. John, like the other prisoners, was staked 
down, each limb extended and bound fast to a 
stake, a cord encircling his neck tied to another 
stake. One of the Indians brought oak leaves and 
bound his wound with them, — a great comfort. 
The same Indian had previously given him food. 
But John now knew enough of Indian customs 
to look suspiciously on this apparent kindness, 
thinking, — 

“They do but fatten me like a lamb for the 
slaughter.” 

With the early dawn the Mohawks were in 
motion. From bushes along the river’s shore 
they drew out the canoes concealed when they 
had set forth on the war-path. John, with his. 
stiff painful limb, was thankful to be placed in 


AMONG THE MOHAWKS. 181 

one of the canoes which the Mohawks paddled 
down the broad stream. 

After the recent rain, the early air this June 
morning was full of freshness and delight. The 
beautiful river sparkled and shone in the sunshine 
with almost conscious joy, and warbling birds, 
blooming flowers, trees tossing their tender green 
leaves in the gentle morning breeze, the air full of 
sweet summer odors, were a bitter contrast to the 
dark despair filling John’s soul as he thought in 
Scripture phrase, — so familiar to the Puritan 
mind as to be its natural language, especially in 
moments of great emotion, — 

“ God hath overthrown me, and hath compassed 
me with His net. He hath abandoned me to my 
enemies.” 

The canoes reached the mouth of a smaller 
river pouring into the Hudson from the west, 
— the Mohawk. Into this stream the Mohawks 
turned their canoes as those who feel themselves 
at home. Was not this their own free river, 
proudly held by them against all foes? From 
source to mouth, it traversed their own country, 
rarely seen by white men, save occasional Dutch 
fur-traders, the few Jesuit priests who, in their 
zeal for souls, had penetrated even to the Iroquois 
fastnesses, or wretched captives dragged here from 
Canada or New England. On its banks the Mo- 
hawks held proud sway, making forays at pleas- 


182 THE YOUNG PUKITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

ure, now over the New England border, now 
upon the French along the St. Lawrence, now on 
the Indian tribes south, north, or west. Every- 
where the name of Mohawk was a fear and trem- 
bling, to red and white men alike. 

As their prows turned into this lovely stream, 
the Mohawks broke out in a chant of triumph, 
some beating time with their paddles on the canoes' 
side to the rude rhythm of their song. The scalps 
just taken were fastened to sticks and mounted in 
the canoes as flags of victory. 

When John realized that their journey was to 
be wholly by water, he could but feel how great 
was the mercy to him, in his lameness. The faith 
in which he had been so carefully trained re- 
asserted itself, and his heart smote him for his 
doubts and lack of trust. A verse from Paul’s 
advice to Timothy came suddenly into his mind, 
as if from without, whispered for his comfort by 
some unseen friend. 

“ Thou therefore endure hardness as a good 
soldier of Jesus Christ.” 

“ God forgive my murmurs,” thought John, 
tears filling his eyes. “ I will endure whate’er 
God is pleased to put upon me. I will fight the 
good fight to the end.” 

Late in the day the canoes drew in sight of one 
of the large Indian “ castles,” so called, — one of 
the fortified villages in whose construction the 


AMONG THE MOHAWKS. 


183 


Iroquois (as the French called the Five Nations 
settled in what is now Central New York) showed 
their superiority to other Indian tribes. This vil- 
lage was Kaghnawaga. On a high hill overlooking 
the river were built double rows of palisades, sur- 
rounding the wigwams within, the whole a fortifi- 
cation not easy to take. The meadows below the 
fort were planted with fields of corn, beans, squash, 
and pumpkins, and there was a certain appearance 
of settled comfort not known among the wander- 
ing tribes of the Connecticut Valley. 

As they neared the village, the Mohawk braves 
broke into their scalp-song, mingled with loud 
shouts of triumph, waving aloft their bloody 
trophies. Out from the palisades swarmed a 
throng of Indians, with answering cries and leaps 
of fierce joy as they saw the prisoners. Umpan- 
chala and the other Pocumtucks, their hands 
bound tightly behind their backs, walked in un- 
moved silence up towards the fortification, amid 
the jeers and yells of the crowd. They knew well 
the fate awaiting them. Their part now was 
only to show no fear, to die as became braves. 

John followed them, apparently as unmoved as 
the Indians, the uproar increasing as the Mohawks 
saw an English boy among the captives, promising 
a variety in the cruel sport which they all eagerly 
anticipated. 

Inside the palisades stood many well-built wig 


184 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

wains, surrounding a long wigwam or hut built of 
bark, the council house of the tribe. A fire blazed 
in the open space before the council house, and 
near it was erected a platform. John wondered 
for what purpose this platform was designed. He 
was soon to learn. 

When he saw the Mohawks, full of wild joy, 
forming themselves in two long lines, men and 
women armed with sticks, stones, clubs, knives, 
and tomahawks, their restless black eyes sparkling 
eagerly, the children running up and down, whoop- 
ing and leaping, — “like so many imps of darkness,” 
thought John, — he knew but too well what these 
preparations foreboded, and braced himself again 
to run the gauntlet. 

Umpanchala bounded like a hunted animal down 
the lines, running with such fleetness that he re- 
ceived but few injuries. The Mohawks named him 
“ the Bounding Deer,” promising themselves fur- 
ther pleasure with so spirited a captive. 

When John’s turn came, gathering all his force, 
he leaped forward and snatched a war-club from 
the grasp of the astonished warrior standing first 
in the line, who was little prepared for such a bold 
act on the part of the despised white captive. 

John gave him a sound whack with his own 
club and ran on, limping, yet with a speed born of 
desperation, laying about him so vigorously as he 
ran, that he saved himself from many blows and 


AMONG THE MOHAWKS. 


185 


cuts. Exhausted and sore, he fell on the ground 
at the foot of the post which formed the goal of 
the gauntlet race, near where Umpanchala stood, 
again bound. 

“ The spirit of Wawahoo lives again in my 
young brother,” said Umpanchala, proudly. • 

A tremendous whooping and shouting from the 
Mohawks had greeted this unexpected display of 
spirit on the part of the young white captive. 

“I’ve settled my case now,” thought John. 
“ But there was no hope, and at least I had the 
satisfaction of giving the fiends some sound 
whacks.” 

The prisoners were next taken to the platform, 
made to ascend it, and commanded to sing and 
dance for the amusement of the throng of Indians 
crowding around, their dark faces, hideous with 
streaks and dashes of war-paint, lit up both by the 
firelight and the pale light of the moon just rising 
above the southeastern hills. 

John looked down on the howling mob of dusky 
figures that it required little imagination in the 
dim half-light to fancy so many demons, then 
up at the moon shining so peacefully in the dark 
vault of the sky. 

« I wonder what my friends are doing in Hadley 
to-night,” crossed his mind, irrelevantly. 

Hadley seemed a far-away, peaceful dream. 
Little did John think that his mother at that same 


186 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

moment was also looking up to the moon, in anguish 
of spirit, and vain yearnings for her boy. 

Umpanchala and the other Pocumtucks circled 
around the platform, dancing the war-dance, and 
defiantly chanting their war-songs, daring their 
enemies to do their worst. John, weak and ex- 
hausted, his back and arms torn and bleeding, 
could not obey the command to dance. But some 
of the Indian children, with impish glee, brought 
coals from the fire and threw on his feet. Others 
thrust lighted torches of bark against his bare legs, 
crying, — 

“ We will caress the white boy and make him 
dance.” 

The intolerable pain of his burns made John 
start perforce. Hobbling as best he could around 
the platform, he sang, or rather howled, over and 
over a verse of the Twenty-first Psalm, which had 
served him before for a war-song, — 

u And like an Oven burne them, Lord, 
in fier} r flame and fume : 

Thine anger shall destroy them all, 
and fire shall them consume.” 

When their captors were for the time being sat- 
isfied with this sport, the prisoners were taken 
down from the platform and food given them, to 
strengthen them for further tortures on the morrow. 
A squaw carefully washed and bound up John’s 
wound. This was a comfort ; but John knew that 


AMONG THE MOHAWKS. 


187 


Umpanchala prophesied truly when, pointing to 
some Mohawks busy driving strong stakes into the 
ground around the central fire, he said grimly, — 

“When the sun shines again, Umpanchala, Wa- 
wahoo, all the Pocumtucks must burn. Be a brave, 
my brother. Cry not out like a squaw or an Eng- 
lishman. Ere the sun goes down, we shall be in 
the happy hunting-ground beyond its setting. 
There the sun always shines, there game is plenty, 
there the kettle always hangs full of meat over 
the fire.” 

The prisoners were bound down to stakes as 
before. Quiet settled over the Mohawk fort. 
John’s Indian companions were soon fast asleep, 
but, in spite of his exhaustion, it was long ere his 
eyes closed in slumber. He lay in the white moon- 
light, looking up into the peaceful sky, so serene, 
far above, listening to the rushing of the river 
below, the faint rustling of the leaves, the notes of 
the katydid and whippoorwill which had in John’s 
ears a plaintive, pitying sound, and to the distant 
howls of wild beasts, far away in the forest, borne 
through the silent night. A great loneliness de- 
scended upon John’s spirit. 

“ Little do my father and mother dream where 
I am to-night,” he thought. “ ’T is hard to think I 
must die here afar in the wilderness, and they will 
ne’er know my fate.” 

Tears trickled down John’s cheeks in the moon- 


188 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

light, tears he was helpless to wipe away with his 
bound hands. 

Other thoughts, full of awe, entered his mind. 
Was it possible that, only to-morrow, he should 
leave these familiar scenes of earth, and enter upon 
that other, mysterious life, which, when he had 
heard it spoken of in sermon or Scripture, had 
seemed so unreal, so far away ? Now it loomed 
close at hand, the one great reality. 

John at last took refuge from all his sorrowful 
and awful reflections in the only comfort, — the 
thought of God. 

“ Thy will, 0 God, be done.. Into thy hands I 
commit my spirit,” he prayed. Then blessed sleep 
came, and for a while forgetfulness. 

Early in the morning the prisoners were bound 
fast to the stakes. Wood, and light, inflammable 
materials were piled high around the doomed 
victims. Umpanchala and his fellows burst out 
into the triumphant death-song, as a blazing torch 
was applied to the kindling, and the red flames 
leaped hotly up around them. 

John stood firm, showing no craven fear, beg- 
ging no mercy, resolved not to please the Mohawks 
by any weak outcries. “ Endure hardness as a 
good soldier of Jesus Christ,” kept running through 
his mind. 

A young Mohawk brave, with loud whoops of 
joy, came running towards John with a blazing 
torch in his band. 


AMONG THE MOHAWKS. 


189 


“ It will not be long,” thought John, bracing 
himself for the end. 

At that instant Awassamaug, the Indian who 
had captured John, and who, as John had seen, 
was one of the chief sachems, stepped forward, 
pushed back the hand about applying the torch to 
the pile around John, and said, — 

“ Hold ! Awassamaug adopts the young white 
brave in place of his son Elowhokoam.” 

John was so dazed by this sudden change of 
fate he hardly realized what was being done, as 
Awassamaug unbound him and led him away to 
his wigwam, where he gave John in charge of his 
squaw, Andiora, to be doctored and cured. 

But John realized enough to be filled with thank- 
fulness that he was spared witnessing the further 
tortures of Umpanchala and liis comrades, who 
were subjected to every cruelty possible for Indian 
ingenuity to devise. As they stood every test to 
the end without flinching or craving mercy, their 
hearts were eagerly devoured, and their warm 
blood scooped up and drunk in great handfuls, the 
Mohawks believing that thus they imbibed the 
courage of brave foes. The Pocumtuck women 
and children were scattered about among the Mo- 
hawks and others of the Iroquois nations, as- 
slaves, or to swell the tribes by marriage or adop- 
tion. 

Awassamaug had marked John’s manly resistance 


190 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


when his band fell on the Pocumtuck camp. He 
perceived that John had been adopted by the Po- 
cumtucks, and felt him, therefore, probably a 
youth of spirit. This opinion was confirmed by 
his manner of running the gauntlet, and the quiet 
composure with which the white boy had awaited 
the tortures of the stake. He felt that John 
was worthy to become a Mohawk. He would 
adopt him, to restore to life his fearless son Elo- 
whokoam, slain by the Huron s only three moons 
before. 

Andiora tended and nursed John as carefully as 
if he were in truth her son returned. The mother’s 
heart which beat under her red skin warmed 
towards the brave young captive, so far from 
home and friends. Indeed, John was treated in 
every respect as a son, by both Awassamaug and 
Andiora. The clothing, weapons, and ornaments 
befitting a young chief, son of a leading sachem, 
were given him. 

It was long ere he recovered full strength. But 
at last came a time when he was able to go to the 
hunt with his father Awassamaug. Standing on 
the Mohawk’s shore, John chaneecl to catch a 
broken reflection of himself in the clear stream, in 
fringed hunting-shirt and leggings, feathers in his 
scalp-locks, strings of wampum around his neck, 
silver armlets on his arms, bow in hand, and a 
quiver of arrows slung on his back. 


AMONG TIIE MOHAWKS. 


191 


He gazed on this strange image of himself, 
thinking, — 

“ So I am a Mohawk, am I ? They will see, 
once 1 get a chance to use these good legs of 
mine.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


JOHN GOES HUNTING. 

W HILE John was convalescing, he had been 
much interested in watching the Mohawks 
construct some birch canoes. 

“ ’T will not come amiss, an I e’er get home 
again, to learn the art,” he thought. “ None hath 
craft in making canoes equal to the Indians.” 

First, four stakes were driven into the ground, 
at the two ends and sides of the proposed canoe, to 
mark its size. The squaws and children returned 
from the woods, the squaws bending under great 
rolls of white birch bark, stripped from the trees 
in as large pieces as possible, the children bringing 
handfuls of the wiry roots of the red cedar. The 
squaws sewed the sheets of bark together with the 
fibrous roots, and fastened them to the stakes. A 
rim of wood was then put around the top, and ribs 
were forced down in, these ribs having first been 
thoroughly soaked in water to make them pliable. 
They were shaped like half-hoops, passing around 
the bottom and up the sides of the canoe. The 
rim rested on the ends of the ribs, and was also 


JOHN GOES HUNTING. 


193 


sewed to the bark with the “ watrap,” or cedar 
roots. Large stones were placed on the bottom of 
the canoe to press it and keep it in shape until the 
ribs had dried. The seams were then carefully 
gummed with the gum of spruce and other trees, 
and the light boat, easily borne by two men, yet 
capable of carrying heavy loads, was launched, 
floating lightly as a feather. It was really a skil- 
ful piece of workmanship, and John admired, as 
he was often forced to do, the ingenuity with which 
the Indians supplied all their wants from the 
resources of nature alone. 

There was a dearth of meat in the village, and 
Awassamaug summoned John to go to the hunt. 
John obeyed the summons gladly, thinking,— 

“ ’T is vastly better to be anywhere out in the 
forest than shut up here in this filthy fort with 
my savage relations.” 

He was not trusted with a gun. It gave him a 
pang to see his good snaphance in Awassamaug’s 
hands, while he was only allowed a bow and arrow. 
But, making the best of what he could not help, 
John had practised much with the bow, until he 
had become skilled in sending an arrow straight 
to its mark. 

He was the more pleased to go to the hunt be- 
cause he was anxious to try a new bow which he 
had improved the leisure of convalescence to make 
himself, after the most approved Indian methods. 

13 


1 ( J4 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Taking a long strip of hickory recommended by 
Awassamaug, he had increased its natural elastic- 
ity and toughness by much patient scraping, until 
it had reached the desired thinness. He then 
dipped it in bear’s oil, rubbing it down, heating it 
at the fire, rubbing it again, even boiling it in oil. 
When it was sufficiently supple, Andiora gave him 
bow-strings made of deer sinews. For the arrows’ 
shafts he used hollow reeds from the swamp. To 
one end he fastened a few wild-bird’s feathers ; to 
the other, a -sharp head of arrow-shaped flint. 
These parts were bound together with fresh sin- 
ews, which, as they dried, shrank, holding all 
tightly in place. On his left wrist John wore, 
like the Indians, a strip of leather two inches 
wide, to protect his wrist from his bow-string. 

Awassamaug and the Indians with him struck 
off into the forests covering the hills north of the 
Mohawk. They divided in parties of two and 
three, creeping stealthily along on their soft moc- 
casins that rustled not the lightest leaf, speaking 
no word. There was no sound to frighten the 
shyest wild creature. If it was necessary for these 
scattered parties to signal each other, they did so 
by the calls of wild birds or animals, so natural 
that no ears but their own could distinguish between 
the real and false notes. 

As Awassamaug and John crept noiselessly on, 
Awassamaug suddenly stopped, listening intently 


JOHN GOES HUNTING. 


195 


a moment, though John could hear nothing, then 
turned his steps to the left. Soon Awassamaug 
pointed to a slight stir among the leaves of high 
bushes far beyond, motioning John to shoot. John 
quickly obeyed. Twang went his good bow, send- 
ing an arrow whistling into the thicket. Out of it 
and away bounded a fine stag, John’s arrow stick- 
ing fast in his flank. Hard on his track pressed 
Awassamaug and John. The stag, more at home 
in the forest than even the Indian, was soon lost 
to view. But Awassamaug, in some way incom- 
prehensible to John, was able to follow him, track- 
ing his trail by imperceptible disturbances of leaves 
or brush, or faint pressure of his foot on moss. 

At length they came to an open spot where on 
the soft ground were tracks of deer, plain enough 
even to John. But there were two tracks, equally 
plain, leading in different directions. Which was 
the fresh track of the deer they pursued ? 

Awassamaug gave a grunt of doubt as he viewed 
the two tracks. Then drawing his hunting-knife 
from his belt, he took up a bit of earth from each 
track, and smelt it. Replacing his knife with an 
air of satisfaction, he said, pointing to the left- 
hand track, — 

“ This is the fresh track.” 

Crossing a brook, they caught a glimpse of the 
stag climbing a hill, forced to go more slowly now, 
hampered by John’s arrow. The snaphance rang 


196 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

out, and the stag fell, to be finished by Awassa- 
maug’s hunting-knife. 

“ Elowhokoam’s bow shot well,” said Awassa- 
maug, as he drew out and returned to John his 
arrow. “ Before many moons, Elowhokoam make 
a brave ; go out on war-path with the Maquas ; 
bring back many scalps.” 

John replied to these cheering assurances only 
with an Indian grunt, which was all the reply ex- 
pected of him. . Secretly he thought, — 

“ Before many moons, an fortune do but favor 
me, I shall be far away from my Mohawk kin, 
good Awassamaug, didst thou but know it.” 

But curiosity prompted him to ask, — 

“ What was it that Awassamaug’s ears heard, 
which Elowhokoam’s could not ? ” 

“ Awassamaug heard the deer’s antlers strike 
against a tree-trunk from afar,” replied the Indian. 
“ Elowhokoam’s ears grow sharp and long, like the 
Mohawks’, when he has lived long in the forest.” 

They hung the stag’s carcass in a tree, above 
the reach of wild beasts, and went on in search of 
more game. The forest darkened, and a low, 
rumbling sound attracted their attention to heavy 
clouds, which, shut in by the forest, they had not 
observed rolling up the western sky. The thunder 
grew heavier, and quick flashes of lightning prom- 
ised a hard storm. 

Awassamaug was much disturbed. Thrusting 


JOHN GOES HUNTING. 


197 


his hand in the otter-skin pouch hanging at his 
belt, he drew out the hollow bone of an eagle, 
which John knew he regarded as a powerful charm. 
Through this bone Awassamaug whistled defiantly 
at the thunder-cloud. Then he shook aloft the 
dried rattle of a rattlesnake, which he also carried 
as an amulet, saying to John, — 

“ Frighten Thunder-Bird away.” 

John could but wonder to see a strong, brave 
man like Awassamaug given to such childish 
superstitions. 

“ Verily, the savages are but poor heathen folk,” 
he thought. 

But he did not venture to smile or in any way 
show his contempt, not even when the thunder- 
cloud, undismayed by Awassamaug’s arts, rolled 
majestically on, and the first drops of the coming 
shower pattered on the leaves overhead. They 
hastily took refuge under the thick branches of a 
large hemlock. The storm increased in fury. The 
wind, roaring through the forest, bent trees and 
lashed branches angrily, strewing the ground with 
torn leaves, broken twigs, and even limbs. Above 
the roar of the tempest was heard a mighty crash, 
and down came a* huge oak, centuries old, its limbs 
sweeping against Awassamaug and John as it fell. 

“The Great Spirit much angry,” said Awassa- 
maug, in tones of awe. He still held a charm in 
each hand. 


198 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

A blinding flash, seeming all about them, and a 
mighty crash of thunder, came together. 

“ ’T is mayhap the Day of Judgment ! ” thought 
John, sharing Awassamaug’s awe. 

A huge pine towering near them was cleft from 
the top down, the earth around its foot torn up 
and scorched by the escaping electricity, which both 
John and Awassamaug felt tingle in their veins. 

Awassamaug fell on his knees, in an attitude of 
prayer, — a position never taken by an untaught 
Indian. He clasped in his hands a metal cross 
which he wore on his neck hanging from a chain 
of wampum. John had noticed this cross, but had 
supposed it merely one of the ornaments in which 
the Indians delighted. He saw that Awassamaug 
was muttering something over it, a prayer perhaps. 
John caught the words “ Pater Noster ” and other 
words unknown to him. 

“ T is doubtless some of their heathen mum- 
meries or charms he repeateth,” thought John. 

The storm, having spent its fury, lessened, and 
finally ceased. The sun broke radiantly forth, the 
frightened birds came out from the evergreen 
thickets where they had taken refuge from the 
rage of the tempest, singing rapturously, and the 
air was full of all delightful wood odors. 

John’s body, as well as what remained of his 
hair, was saturated with bear’s grease, according 
to Indian fashion. He had discovered that there 


JOHN GOES HUNTING. 


199 


were excellent reasons for this fashion. Oiled hair 
was not easily blown about and caught on bushes 
as he made his way, bareheaded, through tangled 
swamps and forests ; and his oiled skin shed the 
rain, as now, like a wild duck’s back. Moreover, 
the grease was a sadly needed protection to the 
skin against the bites of the intolerable swarms of 
mosquitoes and gnats infesting the woods. 

“I verily believe, an I e’er reach home again, 
1 ’ll still grease myself, Indian fashion, whene’er I 
go hunting,” John had often thought. 

As the sun glanced through the leaves, Awassa- 
maug dropped his cross and rose from his knees. 

“ The Great Spirit is angry no more. He smiles 
again. The Black Coats’ God is a mighty Spirit, 
powerful above all the others.” 

“ What ineaneth Awassamaug by the Black 
Coats ? ” asked John, wondering within himself, 
“ Hath he verily seen the Devil and besought his 
aid ? ’T were not strange, for no doubt the sav- 
ages are oft helped by the Evil One.” 

“ The Black Coats come from far, from our 
French brothers on the great river, far to the 
north,” said Awassamaug. “ They come to teach 
the Iroquois, as they call us and our brothers of 
the Five Nations, about their God. The Black 
Coats are good and brave. They fear not to die 
like the Mohawk brave. Awassamaug learned 
this prayer when he was a boy. The Black Coat 


200 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

father who taught him put water on Awassa- 
maug’s forehead, to save him from burning alive, 
by and by, when Awassamaug goes beyond the 
sunset. He gave Awassamaug this cross. Awas- 
samaug forget all the Black Coat taught him 
but this prayer. Powerful charm ; make storm 
go away.” 

John gathered from this that Awassamaug re- 
ferred to the Jesuit missionaries from Canada, who 
had penetrated even to this remote, fierce tribe; 
that some faint idea of their teachings had gained 
lodgment in the Indian’s mind, being regarded by 
him chiefly as a powerful charm to be resorted to 
in the last emergency. 

“ A Papist cross ! ” thought the Puritan boy, 
viewing with horror the emblem on Awassamaug’s 
neck. “ I must look well to myself, here alone in 
the wilderness with an Indian and a Papist, lest 
Satan ensnare my soul unawares.” 

In spite of all Awassamaug’s care, the storm, 
driving furiously in under the hemlock, had wet 
the snaphance ; but the dampness only made 
John’s bow-string more taut. Dusk fell as they 
rambled on, striking no more game, until a small 
mongrel dog who accompanied them began leaping 
and barking excitedly under a tree. . 

“ Elowhokoam climb tree, shake raccoon down,” 
said Awassamaug. 

John easily climbed the tree, and his shaking 


JOHN GOES HUNTING. 


201 


dislodged an unusually large raccoon clinging to an 
upper limb. The dog rushed upon the beast as it 
whirled to the ground. But the raccoon showed 
unlooked-for spirit, facing the dog, clasping him in 
his paws, and setting his long teeth well into the 
dog’s head. The raccoon being the larger and 
heavier of the two, the dog could not shake him 
off, and the contest looked doubtful. 

It was impossible to shoot the raccoon without 
risk of wounding the dog as he twirled and twisted 
in the raccoon’s grasp. But the dog’s own wits 
came to his aid against superior strength. Near 
by ran a brook. The dog backed and pulled the 
raccoon, which still clung tightly to him, to the 
bank of this brook, rolling off into a deep hole with 
him. To John’s amazement, the dog artfully con- 
trived to hold the raccoon under water, at the 
same time keeping his own nose out, until the rac- 
coon was forced to loosen his hold, when the 
dog set his teeth in his victim’s throat, brought 
him to land, and shook the life out of him. 

Awassamaug was pleased at the intelligence 
displayed by his dog, even deigning to pat his 
head when the dog bounded to him for his 
approval. 

“ Dogs know much ; almost like men,” he said 
to John, who for once fully agreed with his Indian 
father. 

The raccoon was large and fat, a desirable prize, 


202 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

John shouldered it, and followed Awassamaug as 
he led the way back to the spot where they had 
left the deer, finding it in some manner a mystery 
to John. 

“ Doubtless ’t is his cross that giveth him more 
than mortal sight,” thought John. 

The other Indians, who now joined them, brought 
in two raccoons and three beaver, — these last great 
prizes, because the Dutch at Fort Albany would 
gladly pay well for the skins, in blankets, guns, 
powder, and kettles. 

Genajohhore, a chief among the Indians, reported 
seeing a large maple with a hollow in its trunk 
far above the ground, the trunk much scratched, 
evidently by the climbing up of a bear, perhaps 
for honey. 

“ The sun had set when Genajohhore saw the 
bear’s tree. When the sun shines again, Mohawks 
go early, find the bear and honey,” he said. 

The Indians w T ere in good cheer. They suc- 
ceeded in finding enough dry, dead stuff and pine 
cones under low hanging evergreens and beneath 
piles of dead leaves to start a fire in a forest 
opening, where the great trunks of the primeval 
trees, shining in the firelight, rose grandly around 
like pillars of some vast temple, vanishing in green 
arches overhead, and extending in dim aisles on 
every side until lost in the darkness. 

The fat raccoon was skinned and roasted. 


JOHN GOES HUNTING. 


203 


Not having tasted food that day, John required no 
urging to eat his full share of the half-cooked, 
unsalted flesh, devouring it with a relish that 
would have once surprised him. After eating, as 
the Indians lay around the fire, Awassamaug told 
the story of his dog’s wit in conquering the raccoon. 

Genajohhore, who was a noted teller of stories, 
gravely followed with this tale : — 

“Many moons ago, before Genajohhore was 
born, in his grandfather’s time, there lived an 
Indian, one of the Onondagas, whose eye grew 
so sore that he tore it out and threw it away. The 
Onondaga brave must have a new eye, or he could 
go no more to the hunt and to war. So he tried 
to find a new eye. First he put in an Eagle’s 
eye, but it did not fill the hole. Then he changed 
this for a Turtle’s eye, but this was too dim ; he 
could see but little with it. So he threw it away 
and put in the empty place the eye of a Loon. 
The Loon’s eye was so keen and long, the Onon- 
daga could see far, see too much ! He saw even 
to the bottom of the deepest lakes and rivers, as 
he paddled over them, and all the fish in them. 
The awful distance from his little canoe, floating 
like a leaf on the surface, to the bottom of the 
great lakes, frightened the Onondaga, so that he 
threw away the Loon’s eye and took the eye of his 
dog. That just filled the hole in his head, and was 
all the same as his own eye. Dogs wise, know 


204 THE YOUNG PUKITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

much • can talk if they want to/’ said Genajoh- 
hore, in closing. 

The Indians grunted their assent. Wrapping 
their blankets around them, they lay down on the 
ground with their feet to the fire, which was their 
defence at once against mosquitoes and wild beasts. 
Ordinarily it would have been the business of John, 
as the youngest of the band, to rise occasionally 
and replenish the fire. But plainly Awassamaug 
did not feel over-sure of the loyalty of his new 
son. He took upon himself the task of keeping 
the fire. 

John lay awake awhile, pondering the possi- 
bility of the escape which ever haunted his 
thoughts. Once he began to rise cautiously. But 
Awassamaug, who lay close beside him, instantly 
opened his eyes with a watchful look ; and John, 
muttering something about “ mosquitoes,” turned 
over and pretended a sleep which soon became 
sound and heavy. 


CHAPTER XY. 


THE OTKON BRINGS SUCCESS. 

HOUGH John woke with the rising sun, he 



X found the Indians up, and about starting 
in pursuit of the bear, with, of course, no thought 
of eating. Nor was any necessity felt of washing 
face or hands, or making any toilet. Lying down 
to sleep in the clothing worn by day, in the morn- 
ing they simply rose from the ground, took their 
weapons, and moved silently off, led by Genajoh- 
hore in the direction of the hollow tree. 

As John hastened to overtake the moving file, 
he noticed a bush in the forest opening he was 
crossing, laden with ripe raspberries. There was 
no resisting this. 

“ E’en though the Indians should torture me for 
it, I will taste those luscious berries,” thought the 
breakfastless boy. 

He was cramming down berries as fast as he could 
snatch them with both hands from the laden 
bushes, — never had anything tasted so fresh and 
delicious, — when a strange noise filled the air, 
seeming all about him. He looked about, high 
and low. To his terror, he saw on the ground 


206 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

near his feet a great rattlesnake, four or five feet 
long, coiled, its head raised, its rattles giving 
angry warning, on the point of striking him. 

John sprang back, and hastily seizing a stick, 
would have struck the snake. But a hand was 
laid on his arm. John started, for he had heard 
no one approach. Awassamaug stood behind him. 

“No dare strike the snake,” said Awassamaug. 
“ The rattlesnake is a spirit, a great Otkon. His 
coming means trouble. He is angry. He must be 
soothed, and we must try to learn what message 
he brings.” 

Awassamaug, drawing his pipe from his belt, 
sat down on the ground near the snake, and 
gravely smoked it, puffing great mouthfuls of 
smoke toward the snake, tobacco being peculiarly 
agreeable to all gods and spirits. At intervals 
Awassamaug said, in reverent conciliatory tone, — 

“ Let not our grandfather be angry with his chil- 
dren. Let our grandfather smile again on them. 
Let him say what he would have them do, and his 
children will obey.” 

To John’s surprise, the tobacco fumes seemed 
actually pleasing to the snake. Gradually it 
lowered its angry head, uncoiled, stretched itself 
out at full length as if in high satisfaction and 
finally slipped away into the forest. 

By this time the other Indians had returned, to 
see what had become of Awassamaug. Awassa- 


THE OTKON BRIHGS SUCCESS. 20 7 

mang declared his opinion that the snake had come 
to warn his children not to go for the bear. 

“ May be some enemy near by. Our grand- 
father warns his children to turn about and seek 
our village.” 

But Genajohhore, looking angrily at John, said, 

“ Our grandfather came to punish Elowhokoam 
for leaving the trail like a child. Braves do not 
stop to eat when they go on the hunt or to war. 
Let us go on. The snake bids us go swift on the 
trail of the bear.” 

The other Indians agreeing in Genajohhore’s 
interpretation of the snake’s message, Awassamaug 
was forced to yield, and followed them to the old 
hollow tree. The hole was fully thirty feet above 
the ground, and to climb the great tree-trunk was 
manifestly impossible. 

The Indians, however, were at no loss in this 
.emergency. They began cutting down a sapling 
growing near by, so standing that in its fall it 
would lodge against the • old maple. After long 
hacking the sapling fell, lodging as planned. 

“ Climb up, Elowhokoam,” said Awassamaug. 

John did not flinch at the task set him, but 
climbed up the slippery, slanting sapling with sure 
hands and feet, much helped to keep his footing 
by wearing moccasins. As he neared the hole, it 
cannot be denied that his heart-beat quickened. 
Should he see the grim, hairy snout of a furious 


208 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


she-bear peering up at him? And in that case 
which would be able first to reach the ground, he 
or the bear ? 

John peeped cautiously over into the hole, his 
movements closely watched by the alert Indians 
below. A swarm of angry bees flew out at John, 
who slid down the sapling in hot haste, beating 
around his head to drive away his angry assailants. 

“ Huh, old she-bear climb tree for honey. Her 
den not far off,” said Genajohhore. 

While he with some of the Indians went in 
search of the bear’s trail, Awassamaug told John 
to again climb up and bring down the honeycomb 
no doubt in the hole. 

“ But the bees sting,” John ventured to object, 
showing Awassamaug the smarting red blotches on 
his hands, face, and neck. 

“ Huh, white men have no sense, know nothing,” 
said Awassamaug. 

Looking about the woods, he soon found some 
dry puff-balls. He bade John set these on fire and 
drop into the hole. John obeyed, and found that 
the smoke of the burning puff-ball seemed to 
stupefy the bees for the time being, so that he had 
no difficulty in taking out large squares of dripping 
honeycomb. Who can blame him if he contrived 
to slip a good-sized piece into his mouth, prolong- 
ing his task until he could hide the wax ere 
descending ? 


THE OTKON BRINGS SUCCESS. 209 

Genajohhore had soon found the bear’s trail. It 
led to a ledge of moss-grown rocks in a wild, dense 
part of the forest, rocks piled up high one on 
another, with many black holes and openings run- 
ning into the mass. Awassamaug’s dog ran con- 
fidently into one of these holes or caves. 

Soon a tremendous yelping resounded from the 
depths of the cave. Some of the Indians crept into 
the hole, guns in hand and hunting-knives in teeth, 
while the others stood alert on the outside for 
whatever might appear from any quarter. Sharp 
reports of muskets rang through the cave. A cloud 
of gunpowder smoke poured out. Then the Indians 
emerged, dragging after them the body of a large 
she-bear. Three well-grown cubs were also found 
in the cave with their mother, and slain. 

The dog had been badly clawed. John could not 
help feeling sorry for the brave little fellow, and 
thought of Watch as he patted and praised him, to 
the dog’s delight, for notice of any sort seldom fell 
to his lot. But John was now called to do his part 
in cutting up and skinning the carcasses. The 
Indians loaded themselves down ; with the deer, 
small game, and the four bears, having all they 
could carry. 

They turned towards home. As they traversed 
the woods, Genajohhore was not sparing in ridicule 
of Awassamaug for misinterpreting the Otkon’s 
message, and wishing to turn back, thus losing 
14 


210 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

the four bears. The other Indians laughed, and 
Awassamaug bore it all in grim silence. 

When within a mile or two of Kaghnawaga, to 
John’s surprise, the warriors unloaded, and leaving 
the meat in charge of one of the younger warriors 
and John, struck off swiftly for home. The Indian 
left behind explained to John, — 

“ Braves must not disgrace themselves bearing 
burdens, like squaws. By and by squaws come 
for the meat.” 

Sure enough, later a file of squaws appeared led 
by Awassamaug, to carry home the game. John 
being as yet a youth, not a warrior, was required 
to help. So heavy a load was strapped to his bent 
back that he staggered under it as he walked, hav- 
ing already travelled many weary miles that day 
through the trackless forest, with almost no food. 

“Load too big. Elowhokoam cannot bear it,” 
he ventured to complain to Awassamaug, thinking 
that chief would not allow his son to be over- 
burdened. 

Awassamaug said nothing. Stopping a young 
squaw whose burden was quite equal to John’s, he 
took a part of John’s load and added it to the 
squaw’s. The squaws all laughed derisively, and 
John, mortified to be in this way classed as inferior 
to a squaw, thought, — 

“ Next time I trow I ’ll say naught, though they 
break my back.” 


THE OTKON BRINGS SUCCESS. 211 

The squaws, trained from childhood in burden- 
bearing, found no difficulty in carrying their heavy 
loads. Besides, their hearts rejoiced within them 
at prospect of plenty to eat, and nothing lightens 
burdens like a happy heart. 

Arrived at the village, preparations were at once 
made for a great feast. Bear’s meat, venison, 
raccoon, and beaver flesh were all boiled together, 
or roasted on sticks. The Indians still had some 
maple sugar left, of which the squaws always made 
a great quantity in the spring. One of their 
choicest delicacies was to melt sugar in hot bear’s 
fat, and dip morsels of venison in this compound 
as they ate. With fierce hunger as a sauce, John 
found this mess very palatable. 

But most of the bear’s fat was tried out and 
carefully stored in bags made of moose or deer 
skins. The skin was drawn off whole at the 
animal’s neck without cutting. The hair was 
removed, a string run around the neck, and the wet 
skin blown up like a bladder, tied tight at the 
neck, and suffered to dry in this shape, making 
a vessel which held four or five gallons. The fat 
placed in bags thus constructed was hung up on 
trees for safety and coolness, and kept a long time. 
Again John was forced to admire the ingenuity of 
the Indians. 

The festive season for the Mohawks came with 
the ripening of the corn on the fertile meadows 


212 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

along their river. It was a time for idleness and 
pleasure. No Indian dreamed of going to the hunt 
or doing aught but feast and sport, while food was 
so abundant. The Green Corn dance was cele- 
brated with high ceremony, and offerings of tobacco 
were burned in gratitude to the Corn Spirit, who 
had smiled on the labors of the squaws. Had he 
frowned, the corn would have been blasted in the 
ear. 

Visits were paid to some of the other villages 
and tribes of the “ Long House,” as the Five 
Nations called themselves. John was taken by 
Awassamaug, who liked to show his new son to his 
friends, along the broad .trail towards the west 
connecting the four Mohawk villages, stopping to 
feast and sport awhile in these villages, but at last 
going on until they reached Onondaga, the heart 
or capital of the Indian confederacy. John looked 
with surprise at the great council house in the 
centre of the Onondaga fort, where the warriors 
of the Five Nations often met in council. 

Coming back, in one of the Mohawk villages his 
attention was attracted to a large wigwam by a 
wooden cross erected before its entrance. As John 
stood gazing wonderingly at this cross, the door 
opened, and a white man came out, dressed in a 
way strange to John. He wore a long black robe 
coming to the ground, girdled by a cord, from which 
a crucifix hung at his side. A broad-brimmed 







































* 












TIIE OTKON BRINGS SUCCESS. 213 

black hat with low round crown covered his head. 
His pale, worn face wore the high, absorbed look of 
one who already lives in the world of spirit. 

This was a Frenchman of birth, refinement, and 
education, the Jesuit priest Pere Bruyas, who had 
chosen to abide in voluntary exile far from all the 
comforts and decencies of life, in constant peril, 
here alone in the wilderness among rude and 
squalid savages, if perchance he might save some 
souls. He had especially asked to be sent to “ the 
Mission of the Martyrs,” as the mission among 
the fierce Mohawks was called. 

Awassamaug chanced to come along at this 
moment. To John’s surprise, the priest’s face lit 
with pleasure at sight, of the Indian, whom he 
greeted as “ Paul,” that being the Christian name 
given to Awassamaug in baptism. 

“ Welcome, my son Paul,” said the priest, in 
fatherly tones. “ It gladdens my heart to see 
thee. My son has come to confess his sins, to 
worship again at God’s holy altar, and to be 
instructed in the true faith.” 

“ He is a Papist priest ! ” thought John, his 
heart almost standing still. 

John refused to follow Awassamaug and other 
Indians, who willingly entered the priest’s wigwam. 
In its rear a small addition had been built, which 
was rudely fitted up as a chapel. The small altar, 
bearing the vessels of the Host, was covered with an 


214 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

altar-cloth embroidered with gold thread and bright 
silks, wrought by the hands of a devoted French 
lady for the Canadian mission ; there was a crucifix, 
a picture of the Madonna, and other emblems, 
brought from France, and transported with incred- 
ible toil and hardship all the weary miles through 
the almost impassable wilderness lying between 
Montreal and the Mohawk, on the backs of the 
priest and his assistant. 

As Awassamaug raised the skin over the en- 
trance, John caught a glimpse not only of these 
wonders, but also of the most striking picture he 
had ever seen. Rudely painted, but in most vivid 
colors, all the figures represented with faces front, 
because the Indians disliked profiles, calling one 
“half a man,” this picture depicted the tortures of 
the lost in the flames of hell. The Indians had 
been deeply impressed by this picture, painted in 
France expressly for the Canadian Missions, and 
indeed by all of what seemed to them the mag- 
nificences of the chapel, and these accessories had 
aided Pere Bruyas not a little in gaining some hold 
on the fickle minds of his rude flock, over whose 
souls he yearned with real love and consuming zeal. 

Awassamaug afterwards tried to induce John to 
enter the chapel and receive instruction, saying, — 

“ The Black Robe talk strong talk. He tells 
the red man of the Frenchman’s God, a mighty 
God, who lives afar across the Great Lake. He 


THE OTKON BRINGS SUCCESS. 215 

tells us how to escape burning forever, like the 
picture. It is good for the Indian to know all the 
Otkons. Sometimes one help, sometimes another. 
The Black Robe gives Awassamaug presents to 
bore holes in his ears, so that he can hear his 
talk,” added Awassamaug, showing a small hand- 
ful of French prunes with which Pere Bruyas 
had seasoned his discourse, knowing well the hold 
a present gave one over an Indian. 

But although, in John’s state of chronic hunger, 
his mouth watered for some of the prunes, a deli- 
cacy he had never tasted, and although he would 
much have liked to gaze closely upon such pictures 
and other objects of art and beauty as his eyes had 
never beheld, he stoutly resisted these longings, as 
no doubt temptations sent directly from Satan for 
his soul’s undoing. Straightening himself, with 
an unmistakable light of determination in his 
eyes, he said, — 

“No. Elowhokoam go not. It is sin to him. 
The Frenchman’s God is a false God. He is Baal. 
The Black Robe tells lies.” 

Awassamaug did not consider the matter suf- 
ficiently important to be insisted upon. His mind 
was far more intent upon joining in a gambling 
game with some Onondagas, who had invited him 
to their village to join this sport. This game was 
played with the stones of wild plums for dice. 
The stones were colored black one side, white the 


216 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

other. They were shaken up in a small wooden 
bowl, the Indians who had bets on the result sit- 
ting about in a circle, crying eagerly, “ Black ! 
Black ! ” or “ White, come up ! ” Then the bowl 
was turned, and the black and white stones 
counted. 

This game, though always causing deep excite- 
ment, was usually played good-naturedly. But on 
this occasion a fearful quarrel sprang up between 
Awassamaug . and Chinnohet^, one of the Onon- 
dagas. Awassamaug loudly declared that Chin- 
nohete had cheated him. 

With fierce glaring eyes, like two wild beasts, 
the disputants sprang to their feet, seizing each 
other by the hair, their naked greased bodies 
affording no hold. Silently struggling and jerk- 
ing about until it seemed as if their necks would 
be broken, the fighters hung to each other like 
two mastiffs, neither relaxing his grip, whirling 
and jerking around for a long time, they being 
well matched in strength. 

John felt as if he ought to make some attempt 
to aid Awassamaug. Awassamaug had treated 
him since his adoption as his own son. Moreover, 
should Awassamaug be slain, John well knew that 
it would be a sorry day for himself. His pro- 
tector removed, the fickle Indians might at any 
moment decide to torture and burn the white cap- 
tive, at some real or fancied injury from their 


THE OTKON BRINGS SUCCESS. 


217 


English neighbors in New England, over whose 
border their depredations often carried them. But 
not an Indian offered to interpose, and John saw 
that Indian custom would not tolerate interference. 

When the long struggle had nearly exhausted 
the strength of the combatants, the chief of the 
Onondagas separated them. He heard the story 
of each, and decided that the Onondaga, Chin- 
nohete, had done wrong, especially in violating 
Indian laws of hospitality. He must make suit- 
able reparation to the injured guest. 

Chinnohete departed to his wigwam, and re- 
turned, bearing a beaver-skin and a hatchet, laying 
these at the feet of Awassamaug with a long speech, 
in which he said, — 

“ This beaver-skin is to soothe my brother’s 
mind and wipe out the memory of his wrongs. 
This hatchet is to cut down all thistles growing on 
the path between our wigwams.” 

Awassamaug graciously accepted the gifts, 
saying, — 

“ This beaver-skin stops Awassamaug’s ears so 
that no- evil birds can sing lies in them against 
his Onondaga brother. With this hatchet he will 
smooth the path from the wigwam of Chinnohete 
to his Mohawk brother’s, so that his brother may 
travel it quickly.” 

Peace being thus handsomely restored, the 
Indians turned to other games. 


218 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

The next day as they returned through the 
Mohawk village where stood the chapel, John’s 
attention was attracted by the sound of children’s 
voices sweetly chanting and singing in the rude 
little building where the Jesuit had gathered the 
Indian children for instruction. Watching, he saw 
a troop of dark-faced, nearly naked little ones, 
running forth in great glee from the wigwam 
chapel, bearing in their hands small lead crosses 
which the priest had given them, hastening to 
seek their mothers for bits of hempen string 
whereby these new ornaments might be proudly 
suspended from their necks. Pere Bruy as fol- 
lowed them to the door, listening with pleasure 
to their cries of “ Adieu, bon pere,” which he had 
taught them to say. 

Even this fragment of French civilization was 
sweet to his ears. But far sweeter was the hope 
that perhaps his labors, fasts, prayers, and tears 
had not been in vain. Some among these little 
ones he had already been permitted by their 
parents to baptize. 

“ Ah, that the good God may yet be pleased to 
accept my humble toils for His sake, and grant 
me a rich harvest of souls among these poor sav- 
ages ! ” murmured the Jesuit, looking up beyond 
the pine tops to the blue sky, as far above as the 
peace of heaven seemed from earth’s sorrows and 
trials. 


THE OTKON BRINGS SUCCESS. 219 

John watched him from afar with dread and 
horror, thinking, — 

“ ’T is passing strange that one of Satan’s emis- 
saries can thus favor an angel of light. But that 
he is a Papist priest, he weareth the aspect of a 
kindly, Christian man. T is Satan’s art thus to 
disguise him. I must keep far from him.” 

Later the priest, learning that an English boy 
was captive among the visitors, sought him out, 
wishing to help him, and also to make some effort 
to save the soul of a heretic thus providentially 
brought within hearing of the truth. John’s 
obstinate rebuffs to all his advances confirmed 
the Jesuit in his opinion of the depth and strength 
of the hated English heresy. 

John, on his part, was glad when Awassa- 
maug and his party took the eastward trail for 
Kaghnawaga. 

“ The priest’s black robe may be a symbol of 
sundry black arts he knoweth to use on occasion. 
I am glad to escape from such a dangerous neigh- 
borhood,” thought John, as he trudged silently 
along in Indian file behind his Mohawk father. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE ARTS OF CHINNOHETE. 

N OT long after the return to Kaghnawaga of 
Awassamaug and his party, Chinnohete 
and a band of Onondaga braves came to repay the 
Mohawks’ visit, and also to show that the hatchet 
was buried deep between Chinnohete and his late 
antagonist. This visit was made an occasion of 
high feasting, accompanied by many games and 
sports. John was initiated into several games new 
to him, some of which struck him most favorably. 
As he stood looking on at an Indian game of ball, 
he thought, — 

“ An I e’er get home to Hadley, I ’ll e’en teach 
the Hadley youth some of these tricks. This 
game of ball is better sport than ours, though the 
players be but savages.” 

This game was played by two parties of Indians, 
carefully chosen to equally balance each other in 
strength and skill. The younger men were espe- 
cially eager to take part, not only because it w r as 
sport such as naturally delights the young of all 
races and times, but because a bold, successful 


THE ARTS OF CHINNOHETE. 221 

ball-player took high rank in the tribe, and was 
considered to give promise of becoming a great 
chief. “ Great in games, great in war,” was an 
Indian maxim. 

An open meadow half a mile long on the bank 
of the Mohawk had been chosen as the field of 
the games. A tall post was erected in the centre, 
and posts at either end marked the bounds of the 
contending parties. Every Indian in the village 
was there looking on. The old men, squaws, and 
little children mostly sat on a hillside over- 
looking the green meadow and the river shining 
in the sun. The younger men and boys crowded 
thick along the borders of the field, ready with 
shouts and yells to help on the contest. 

Both parties of players gathered close around 
the centre post, grasping the bats with which the 
game was played, a sort of racket with handles 
four or five feet long, and a net of string attached 
to a bent hoop at the end of the stick. By this 
bat only could the ball be caught or thrown. On 
no account must it be touched by hand. 

It was a moment of intense excitement when 
Awassamaug, the starter, stood at the centre post 
with the ball in his hand ready to throw, — a 
wooden ball three inches in diameter. The object 
of each party was to throw the ball beyond the 
adversaries’ post, and defend its own. The players 
crowded around Awassamaug, watching the ball 


222 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

he held aloft with the fierce eagerness of hunting 
dogs, whose master holds a rabbit which he is 
about to throw in their midst. For greater ease 
in the game they were stripped of all clothing 
save the band worn around the middle. Their 
dark, greasy bodies shone in the warm sunlight. 

Suddenly a mighty shout went up. Awassa- 
inaug had tossed the ball high aloft. A skilful 
player caught it- in his net, and ran swiftly 
towards his opponents’ post. Away bounded all 
the players after him with long leaps and loud 
cries, and the lively struggle began. 

A strong young chief gave the racket staff a 
sounding rap, sending the ball flying out. Again 
it was caught up. Back and forth over the field 
surged the players, yelling at the top of their 
voices, spurred on by the frantic shouts and cries 
of the excited spectators. Sometimes the players 
were crowded together in a struggling mass ; 
sometimes they scattered, running and leaping like 
deer when the hound is on its trail. Sometimes 
a player was skilfully tripped up in the nick of 
time and hurled headlong to the ground, amid the 
loud jibes and laughs of the spectators. 

The players used every form of strength, 
agility, and cunning, to win. The whole crowd 
rushed after the ball with uplifted bats, or huddled 
around it in a surging crowd if on the ground, 
trying to strike it into their nets. They struck, 


THE ARTS OF CHINNOHETE. 223 

kicked, pushed, jumped on each other, knocked 
away each other’s rackets, grappled, wrestled, 
pulled hair. Now and then a player was thrown 
down in the wrestling crowd, and trodden under 
the moccasined feet, but no one was seriously hurt, 
and the struggle, though fierce, was waged in 
high mirth and good humor. 

The game, with some difference of costume and 
surroundings, might have been a scene in the 
Olympic games on the classic plains of ancient 
Greece, or, skipping a few centuries, a foot-ball 
contest between the elevens of Harvard and Yale. 
The same emotions and ambitions burned under 
the red skins of the Indians as animated the old 
Greeks, or swell the bosom of the modern student. 

At last, after a struggle of culminating fierce- 
ness, one party succeeded in throwing the ball 
beyond its adversaries’ post. A mighty din rent 
the summer air. The winners leaped and bounded, 
waving their rackets on high, yelling the war- 
whoop, echoed by the excited men and boys who 
now rushed in upon the field, while the piercing 
screeches of the squaws on the hillside helped not 
a little to swell the ear-splitting noise. 

The next game was a foot-race by the youths. 
To Awassamaug’s delight, John entered for this, 
tolerably confident in his skill as a runner, though 
he well knew the speed of the Indian youths. 

“ There is no harm in my trying my speed with 


224 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

theirs, if they be but savages/’ he thought. “ ’T is 
more sport than doing naught, and at least the 
running will help me to hold out longer at the 
feast to-night.” 

John, stripped like the other runners, his white 
skin conspicuous among the copper-hued bodies of 
the Indian youths, stood at the starting-post, wait- 
ing the signal to go. Six runners had entered for 
the race. They were to go twice around the 
course. 

The Indians, who despised a white skin as 
denoting weakness, made derisive and scornful 
remarks to Awassamaug about his pale-faced son. 

“ Huh,” grunted Awassamaug, “ Elowhokoam 
hath legs like the deer’s, and a Mohawk heart 
under his white skin. Make brave warrior before 
many snows have whitened the ground.” 

The signal was given. Away sprang the six 
runners. John started on an easy, swinging lope, 
not putting forth his utmost strength or speed at 
first. As he circled the track bringing up the 
rear, the Indians, with derisive yells and jibes, 
cried, — 

“ Ho, ho ! See Awassamaug’s White Mud Turtle ! 
See him crawl ! Ho ho, Elowhokoam ! Go back 
to thy inud-puddle, and let one of our squaws run 
for thee ! ” 

But Awassamaug cried, — 

“ Elowhokoam, make alive the young brave 


THE ARTS OF CHINNOHETE. 225 

whose name you bear. The spirit of the brave 
Elowhokoam runs with thee ! ” 

The sneers of the Indians made John’s blood 
hot with rage, and he thought, — 

“ I ’ll show the braggarts. I ’ll win now an it 
kill me ! ” 

As he passed the starting-post on the second 
round, he as it were put spurs on himself, steadily 
and surely increasing his pace, passing one Indian 
after another amid the deafening yells of the 
spectators, who could but delight in this unex- 
pected and exciting turn in the sport. High 
above the din rang out the whoop of the exultant 
Awassamaug, — 

“ Run, my son ! Run, brave Elowhokoam ! 
Thou art winning ! ” 

As John entered on the last quarter, the home 
stretch, but one runner was ahead of him, a swift- 
footed young Onondaga. 

John strained every nerve, put forth every atom 
of will, energy, strength in him. The goal was 
near at hand, he was running neck and neck with 
the Onondaga, about to pass him amid the thun- 
derous shouts of the spectators, his hand, he felt, 
all but on the goal-post, when his foot struck some 
obstacle, tripping him, throwing him headlong, 
and the Onondaga grasped the post as winner. 

The wildest tumult arose. Amid the uproar 
Awassamaug rushed in on the track, and picked 
15 


226 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

up the stick which had caused John’s fall, angrily 
accusing Chinnohete, who had stood near the 
goal, of throwing the stick to trip John. 

Chinnohete loudly denied the charge, professing 
a deep sense of injured innocence at such a vile 
accusation. The Onondagas naturally took his 
part, while the Mohawks sided with Awassamaug. 
The dispute waxed furious, threatening to become 
a real fight. 

But here some of the old men, who were held 
in great veneration among the Mohawks, inter- 
fered. They heard the testimony on both sides. 
No one could be found who had actually seen 
Chinnohete throw the stick, all eyes, in truth, 
having been glued on the runners. The old men 
reminded the heated warriors that the Onondagas 
were both their brothers and their guests. An out- 
ward peace was finally made, although the angry 
Mohawks deep in their hearts still accused the sly 
Chinnohete of the treachery he so stoutly denied. 

John, though stunned by his fall, had soon re- 
covered his breath, and looked on with interest at 
the next game, — climbing a greased pole for 
prizes. A slender sapling stripped of its bark and 
profusely greased with beer’s fat, was erected in 
the centre of the meadow. On its top were hung 
as prizes for whoever was able to secure them, an 
iron kettle and a fine beaver-skin, — both tempt- 
ing prizes in Indian eyes. 


THE ARTS OF CHINNOHETE. . 227 

John looked on, laughing as loudly as the rest, 
while the young Indians and som& among the war- 
riors struggled for these prizes. Breathless was 
the suspense as one after another slowly climbed 
up the treacherous pole, some apparently almost 
within touch of the coveted prizes, only to sud- 
denly lose their grip, to begin slowly slipping, at 
last sliding ignominiously down to earth amid the 
jeers and cries of the laughing spectators. 

Finally, Chinnohete advanced to try his fortune, 
amid some low murmurs from the Mohawks not 
at all complimentary. Secretly Chinnohete’s 
subtle soul was fired with greed to secure the 
prizes at any hazard. To the amazement and 
rage of the spectators, when something more than 
half-way up the pole, clinging with his knees and 
one hand, he drew his knife from his belt, swiftly 
cutting notches in the pole above deep enough to 
hold a cord which he took from around his waist. 
Using this cord for a sort of stirrup, he pulled him- 
self swiftly to the top of the pole, seized the prizes, 
in spite of the terrible hoots and yells of the 
excited crowd, half slid, half leaped to earth, and 
dashed through the throng and away, before they 
had recovered sufficiently from their surprise to 
seize him. It was all done in an instant. 

The uproar was tremendous, and the enraged 
Mohawks were only appeased when the chief 
sachem of the Onondagas took from his neck the 


228 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

rich strings of wampum adorning it, and laid them 
down in reparation of the wrong done by one of his 
tribe. The other Onondagas followed his example, 
each offering wampum belts, bracelets, knives, or 
other of his choicest possessions to wipe out the 
wrong done. 

These presents were all laid at the feet of an 
old sachem, who had often, in the days of his 
youth and strength, led the Mohawks in their 
destructive wars against the Hurons, the French, 
the Illinois, the Andastes, to all of whom his name 
had been a terror. 

When a goodly pile of valuables lay at his feet, 
the wrinkled old chief declared himself satisfied. 

u The wrong is covered,” he declared with 
dignity. “ Our Onondaga brothers have wiped 
out the insult offered by one of their tribe to the 
Mohawks. The injury is now like the fog on the 
river. The sun has risen and shone upon it. It 
has melted and gone,” said the venerable chief, 
with an impressive wave of his hand. . 

By the laws of Indian custom, Chinnohete’s 
tribe had thus made the wrong good. But ’t were 
wise in the sly Chinnohete to avoid meeting his 
Mohawk brothers alone in the forest, lest memory 
of his treachery prove too strong for their savage 
natures, and his bones be left beside the path for 
the wolf and the eagle to pick clean. 

That night Awassamaug gave a great feast, 


THE ARTS OF CHINNOHETE. 229 

partly in honor of the Onondaga guests, partly 
to show his joy and pride in the promise of 
his son Elowhokoam. He and all the Mohawks 
were convinced that nothing but Chinnohete’s 
treachery had prevented John from winning 
the foot-race. The Mohawks now looked upon 
John with greatly increased respect, no longer 
calling him the White Mud Turtle, but giving him 
a new name, that meant Young Moose. 

In their new friendliness, some of the young 
Indians tried to persuade John to have his ears cut 
like their own. Many of them had slashed the 
soft part of the ear away from the gristle, wrap- 
ping it in rags till healed, stretching the separated 
part far down by hanging bits of lead on it. 
When healed, they either inserted heavy orna- 
ments, or wound copper wire around the cut 
portion, making these artificial ears stand out 
three or four inches. 

The Indian boys urged that this was not only 
a great ornament, but also made them more ter- 
rible to their enemies when on the war-path. 
But John could not be persuaded to adopt this 
adornment, and Awassamaug did not yet insist 
upon his doing so, as John feared he might. 

The fire blazed high under the stars the night 
of Awassamaug’s feast. With the feasting there 
was the usual dancing and singing, the singer 
shouting at top of his voice his own brave deeds or 


230 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

those of his tribe, the rest grunting a deep, gut- 
tural chorus of “ Ho, ho, ho,” pounding pieces of 
bark together, or beating their wooden spoons 
against their bark plates in time to the thump of 
the drums and the rattle of gourds which accom- 
panied the song. Singer after singer thus took up 
the strain. 

At last John’s turn came, and again he danced 
in Indian fashion around the fire, with body bent, 
arms kneading up and down, stamping the ground 
in time to the sanguinary hymn he chanted, to 
the edification of his tribe, who felt it a most 
proper war-song. 

As the feast went on, excitement gradually 
wakened, and the war-spirit was aroused. Fiercer 
grew the songs and dances, wilder the waving of 
tomahawks, louder the whoops. 

Awassamaug shouted, — 

“ The Mohawks and their brothers of the Lon^ 

© 

House have wiped out the Andastes and the 
Delawares. We have turned them into squaws. 
They are our slaves. They dare go no more on 
the war-path. From the Susquehanna to the 
great lakes, the Iroquois rule. Even the French 
braves and the English red-coat dogs have learned 
to tremble at the name of Mohawk. But we have 
sat still too long on our mats, my brothers. It is 
time we took up the war-hatchet and went forth 
again to battle.” 


THE ARTS OF CHINNOHETE. 231 

Here uprose Menahwah, the prophet or medicine 
man of the tribe. Swaying his body, he half said, 
half chanted in rising and falling monotone, — 

“ Listen, my brothers. Menahwah has had a 
dream.” 

All were intent now, for it was known that 
Menahwah dreamed true, and often spoke face to 
face with the great Otkons, — that even Tarenyowa- 
gon, the son of Jansheka, deigned to speak to him 
in dreams. 

“ In the dark night,” continued Menahwah, 
“ Ondoutache came to Menahwah’s wigwam. The 
War God was terrible to look upon in his rage. 
The earth trembled when he*stamped. Menahwah’s 
bones shook, his flesh turned to ice. Ondoutache 
gave a bloody hatchet to Menahwah, and told him 
to command his children, the Mohawks, to take up 
the war-hatchet against the French, to go out on 
the war-path against them and their allies, to 
drive them away, that the Indians may again 
become masters of all the country between the great 
lakes and the great river, and of the lands towards 
the sunset, and may recover their fur- trade.” 

u Ho, ho,” grunted the Indians, in approval of 
orders so congenial to their own views. 

“ Before many moons Ondoutache will send 
Tarenyowagon, son of Jansheka, to speak to 
Menahwah. Then the Mohawks must take up 
the hatchet, and set out on the war-path. The 


232 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Mohawks must pounce on Canada like the hungry 
panther, and leave naught beside the great river 
of the north but burned wigwams and bleaching 
bones.” 

This speech was greeted with whoops of appro- 
val, and the Onondaga chief rose to make a speech 
signifying the readiness of his tribe to join the 
Mohawks whenever they should take up the 
war-hatchet against the Canadians and their allies, 
the Huron and Abenaquis Indians. 

John had learned not to withdraw from a feast 
until it ended, and to be skilful in pretending to 
eat long after he was satisfied. At last the end 
came. The warriors withdrew to their wigwams. 
Gorged with food, after the activities and excite- 
ments of the day they slept hard. The fires 
burned low in the wigwams, dying down to ash- 
covered embers. 

Suddenly, through the profound blackness and 
stillness of midnight, a wild, piercing yell rings 
out from Awassamaug’s lodge. 

What is it ? What has happened ? 

Under cover of the darkness, a black form, part 
of the night seemingly, lurking behind Awassa- 
maug’s lodge, has slipped into it with the imper- 
ceptible, gliding motion of a snake, stirring the 
embers till the red light shows the sleeping form 
of Awassamaug. Burying his tomahawk deep in 
the forehead of the sleeping warrior, and ripping 


THE ARTS OF CHINNOHETE. 233 

off his scalp, with a wild insulting whoop of tri- 
umph, the enemy has vanished into the darkness 
whence he came. 

The whole village woke. All was uproar. 
Fires blazed up, torches were lighted, warriors 
plunged into the woods in every direction, seeking 
the daring foe, while Awassamaug’s squaw, aided 
by other women, with wild, mournful wails and 
moans of lamentation, prepared his body for burial. 

John was stunned by the suddenness of this 
calamity, changing in an instant, as he well knew, 
all his prospects and situation for the worse. 
Awassamaug had been kind to him, he was the 
captive’s only friend, and John had come to feel 
almost a friendship and a sort of attachment for 
the grim warrior. 

“ Help Thou, 0 Lord. Do Thou help, for none 
other can,” was the prayer of the desolate boy’s 
heart, as in the flickering firelight he sadly gazed 
on the stately form of the dead warrior. Arrayed 
in all his bravery by the women, his weapons, food, 
and wampum by his side, ready for the long jour- 
ney, a headdress made of glossy feathers from the 
wild drake’s breast carefully arranged to conceal 
the disgrace inflicted upon him by the loss of his 
scalp, Awassamaug lay in the impressive repose of 
death, while the squaws, seated on the ground 
around his body, swayed to and fro with wild, 
piercing wails and cries. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


« 


ON THE WAR-PATH. 


W ASS AM AUG- was buried in the early morn- 



A ing. A war-council was then held in the 
council house. It was decided that the scalp-cry 
of the mysterious midnight foe had been that of 
the Abenaquis, an Indian tribe of Northeastern New 
England in close league with the Canadian French. 
On the last foray into the Abenaquis country, led 
by Awassamaug, he had slain a noted Abenaquis 
chief, bringing home his scalp as his proudest 
trophy. It was plain that some relative had 
travelled many long miles through the forest, and 
patiently lain in wait till opportunity offered to 
avenge the dead chief. 

The course before the Mohawks was plain. The 
spirit of Awassamaug could only be satisfied by 
spilling the enemies’ blood. They must at once 
take the tomahawk and out on the familiar war- 
trail to the north, to avenge the death of their 
slain chief as bloodily as possible. Not only was 
this their first duty, but also their pleasure, for 
they had lain long in idleness, and pined for the 


ON THE WAR-PATH. 


235 


excitement and glory of war. They hoped, if the 
War Spirit smiled, to despoil French forts, ravage 
French settlements, and come home rich in spoils, 
scalps, and captives. 

John found that, in spite of his youth, he was 
expected to go out on the war-path to avenge the 
death of his father. Some of the other youths 
looked on him in envy, as they saw him greased 
and decorated with war-paint like the older war- 
riors. A band of vermilion was laid around his 
eyes and mouth, his nose was painted blue, blue 
and white rays radiated across his cheeks, while 
his forehead was blackened with soot and charcoal 
in mourning for Awassamaug. 

John made no resistance, partly because he 
knew resistance was useless, partly because he 
hoped that, once out in the forest, he might perhaps 
easily effect the escape upon which he was now more 
than ever determined. Awassamaug had taught 
him many of those signs of the forest by which 
the Indians guide their steps through the trackless 
wilderness, and whenever John had been in the 
woods, he had carefully studied these signs until 
he felt confident that, once escaped from the 
Indians, he could eventually find his way home. 

He knew that the slender tops of pines and 
hemlocks always bent towards the south, that on 
all trees the branches grew longer and stronger 
on the south side, that on the north side of tree- 


236 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

trunks moss and fungus grew, and the bark was 
darker, rougher, damper. The same was true of 
rock ledges and boulders. On their north side 
grew soft, damp moss, and every crevice waved 
with luxuriant ferns, while the south and sunny 
side was bare save of a few dry mosses and 
lichens. Even the ground told its stories to the 
observant eye, the dead leaves being dryer and 
rustling more under foot on the south side of 
forests, rocks, etc. than in northern exposures. 

John knew the north star, and he knew that 
the country of the Mohawks was northwest of 
Hadley. 

“ By watching the sun, when I can see it, and 
steering my path through the forest by Awassa- 
maug’s signs when I cannot, I can get home,’ , 
thought John, as he followed the grim warriors, 
chanting their war-song, down to the river, where 
the squaws were lading the canoes with the few 
things necessary for the excursion. 

A small white dog which had followed the 
braves from the village, tried to jump into a 
canoe. To John’s surprise, he was joyfully helped 
in and carried off with the war-party. One of the 
Indians explained that the voluntary coming of 
this dog was an omen of good not to be lightly 
scorned, white dogs being especial favorites with 
all spirits and gods. 

John looked back, taking what he fervently 


ON THE WAR-PATH. 


237 


hoped was his last look at Kaghnawaga as he 
picked up his paddle, and helped send one of the 
canoe fleet swiftly down the beautiful Mohawk. 
Where the river rushed wildly down over rocks 
and rapids, he helped bear the canoe on his shoul- 
ders around the carrying-place through the forest 
to smooth water below. 

The band reached the Hudson towards night, a 
cold, gloomy rain-storm beating down. It was 
now September, and there was more than a hint 
of autumn chill in the driving rain. As darkness 
fell, the Indians landed on the Hudson’s west 
shore, which fact John, intent on escape, noticed. 

“ But I can swim like a duck,” he thought, 
“and as for being wet, I cannot get any wetter 
than I am now.” 

It was impossible to build a fire, and the out- 
look for the night was gloomy. But the Indians 
hauled their canoes well up on shore, and turned 
them over under the lee of a clump of bushes 
facing southward. Crawling underneath, they 
had thus a complete shelter from the storm. 
They ate some nocake from their pouches, and 
strips of dried meat, uncooked, and then curled 
themselves up to sleep, the rain beating and drip- 
ping on their canoe roofs. 

In their cramped quarters no one slept soundly. 
Some one was in uneasy, restless motion most of 
the time, disturbing the others. John had hoped 


238 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

for a chance to escape in the night. But, unluck- 
ily, he lay next to Genajohhore. Well did he 
know, if Genajohhore detected his intentions, his 
tomahawk would be instantly buried in John’s 
head. At last John fell into an uneasy slumber, 
wherein he dreamed that he was struggling for 
his life with Genajohhore. His own struggles 
and stifled cries woke him, to find Genajohhore’s 
fierce red face, fiercer than ever now, smeared as 
it was with grease and charcoal, except two white 
spots two inches in diameter encircling each eye, 
bending close over him in the gray morning light. 

For an instant John stared at the Indian, be- 
wildered, thinking his dream true. Then, recol- 
lecting himself, he explained, — 

“ Elowhokoam dreamed that he met his enemy 
on the war-path, and slew him.” 

“ Huh, Elowhokoam’s dream is good,” said 
Genajohhore, well pleased. “ The War Spirit 
smiles upon the son of Awassamaug, and will 
give him the scalp of his enemy.” 

In the early dawn the Mohawks paddled away 
up the Hudson, until they reached their usual 
carrying-place from that river across country to 
Lake George. On this transit they shot a deer. 
Hastily cutting out the best portions, leaving the 
carcase to the wild beasts and birds, they pushed 
on to the lake, camping that night on its shore, 
making a fire, and cooking some of their venison. 


ON THE WAR-PATII. 


239 


In the morning, ere embarking, they carefully 
covered the ashes of their fire with leaves and 
brush, to conceal all traces of their camp from 
unfriendly eyes. The sky was overcast with 
clouds, and a cold wind blew down from the north 
through the gorges of the mountains, roughening 
the lake so that progress was slow and even 
dangerous for the frail canoes. Some of the 
Mohawks suggested that they make for shore. 
But Genajohhore refused to delay. 

“ The blood of our brother Awassamaug cries 
aloud for vengeance. His spirit will give us no 
rest until we offer him the blood of his enemy to 
drink,” he said. 

The wind increased, and the light canoes tossed 
helplessly about on the rough waves like withered 
leaves. Something must be done. Genajohhore 
and others threw tobacco into the water, begging 
the North Wind, the Winter Maker, not to be 
angry with his children. The storm still in- 
creased, until the danger of shipwreck was 
imminent. 

“ The Storm Spirit is angry. The great Water 
Lizard crawls out of his pool ! ” cried Genajoh- 
hore, alarmed at last. 

Seizing the white dog, tying his fore-legs to- 
gether that he might not swim, Genajohhore 
threw him over into the water, at the same time 
praying, — 


240 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Oh, North Wind, before whom the forests 
tremble, whose breath makes their leaves shrivel 
and drop, and covers the water with ice ! Satisfy 
thy hunger with this offering, and let thy children 
live. Devour us not in thy rage. Send back the 
Water Lizard. Let him not carry the bodies of 
thy children down into his pool, to crunch their 
bones and drink their blood ! ” 

More tobacco was thrown upon the angry 
w r aters. Appeased by these offerings, the wind 
lessened somewhat, and the canoes slowly but 
safely reached the narrow’ northern outlet of the 
lake, winding in and out among the lovely islets, 
the Indians keeping a wary eye out for possible 
enemies lying low in this favorable spot for 
ambush. 

The country was all strange to John. His 
heart sank when they came out on a great lake , 1 
strange to him. The waters sparkling in the 
clear sunlight of a bright fall morning, whose sky 
of intense blue was rivalled by the broad lake 
below, the forest-clad shores, the wild mountain 
peaks and gorges on all sides, filled John’s heart 
with despair. Farther and farther was he being 
helplessly borne into the wild northern wilder- 
ness, escape constantly growing more hopeless. 

The canoes went north, closely hugging the 
western shore. As they ventured nearer and* 

1 Lake Champlain. 


ON THE WAR-PATH. 


241 


nearer to the enemy’s country, the deep-set, glitter- 
ing black eyes of the Indians were never still, 
in constant restless motion scanning every tree, 
rock, or point behind which a foe might possibly 
lurk. 

One day when the Indians had been reduced to 
nocake, and but scanty measure of that, to their joy, 
as surrounding a point they entered into a sheltered 
cove, they came upon a flock of wild geese dark- 
ening the water. Guns were not fired lest the echo 
reach unfriendly ears ; but a shower of arrows 
flew with sure aim, killing several of the fowl as 
their leader gave a wild cry of warning, and the 
flock with loud “ Konk, konk ” rose and flew away 
to the south. 

Not until night did the Indians venture to 
build a fire, lest the rising smoke betray them to 
enemies. With night-fall they landed, a fire was 
built, and the geese devoured but half roasted, in 
the haste to extinguish the fire and cover its 
embers. 

As they paddled north again, one of the Mohawks 
gave John some interesting information about wild 
geese. He said, as autumn draws near, the geese 
hold a council and decide when it is time to depart. 
When their leader gives the signal, they go. He 
also said the wild geese often turn into beavers. 

John laughed incredulously at this; but the 
Indian declared he knew this to be true, for often 
16 


242 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

the Mohawks had killed all the beavers in a 
noted beaver-pond near their village, but the next 
spring the beavers were as plenty as ever in it. 
This pond was a favorite resting-place for flocks 
of wild geese on their way south. It was plain 
that many of these geese turned into beavers, all 
but their feet, which remained nearly the same. 
If not, where did the fresh supply of beavers come 
from ? 

John had no solution ready for this problem in 
natural history. At this moment Genajohhore, in 
the leading canoe, gave a signal to make for 
shore. His keen eyes had spied an almost invisi- 
ble line of blue smoke rising from the forest on the 
slope of a mountain ahead. 

The canoes were carried up on shore and hidden. 
The Mohawks lay down in coverts of thick bushes 
behind mossy logs or rocks. The forest lapsed 
into its native solitude. The w T aves gently lapped 
the shore, the wind sighed through the pines or 
rustled the dry leaves, the pine needles sifted 
silently down, birds sang, and squirrels and rabbits 
ran fearlessly about. There was no sign of human 
presence. 

The Mohawks lay hid thus all day, not from 
cowardice, but because their invariable policy in 
war was always to surprise the enemy and never 
to be surprised. At night the canoes were cau- 
tiously shipped, and the Indians, striking farther 


ON THE WAR-PATH. 


243 


out into the lake, with noiseless dip of paddles 
slipped swiftly on under the stars to the north. 

When they reached the northern end of Lake 
Champlain, the canoes were buried, the spot care- 
fully covered with leaves and brush. The Mohawks 
then struck off into the wilderness west of the 
Richelieu River. They told John that once their 
canoes used to go boldly down this stream, which 
the French called 66 the river of the Iroquois,” as 
they called the lake “ the Iroquois lake,” because 
these water-ways had been the regular war-path 
of the Iroquois to the French settlements. 

“ But now,” said Genajohhore, with a dark 
scowl, “ the French have built forts, and have 
great guns and soldiers in them, to drive the 
Iroquois from their river. They build their vil- 
lages along its shores. They call our lake ‘ Cham- 
plain ’ after one of their braves. Their Onontio, 
Frontenac, is a mighty warrior. The Mohawk 
will avenge his wrongs, but he must glide among 
the French as silently as our grandfather the 
rattlesnake, and pounce upon them when they 
look not for us, like the panther from the tree.” 

Being now in the enemy’s country, great caution 
was necessary. The Mohawks lay hid by day. 
When night fell, dark forms glided from behind 
tree and rock, silently following Genajohhore in 
single file through the forest. Genajohhore had 
travelled the war-trail to the north too often to 


244 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

lose his way. Not a word was spoken, not a sound 
made. In the darkest defiles of the forest, when 
it was impossible to see each other, each Indian 
kept his hand on the shoulder of the warrior 
before him, that he might not lose the path. If 
Genajolihore needed to give his band a signal, the 
howl, of the wolf, the wild cry of the loon, rang 
through the midnight forest so naturally that 
wolves echoed back the cry from afar. 

John was in desperate mood. Should he go 
on, simply to be killed in an Indian skirmish, his 
friends never even to know his fate ? 

“ I may as well die one way as another,” he 
thought. “ I will make a bold break for freedom. 
’T is now or never with me.” 

His heart calling to God for help in the desper- 
ate attempt on which he had resolved, John in the 
darkness watched his chance. % A roughness in the 
rocky path obliged the Indian in his rear to drop 
touch with John for an instant. John quickly, 
silently, stepped aside from the path, and lay down 
on the ground, hardly breathing. Would the 
Indians discover his desertion? No, the rocky 
place passed, the file closed up in the darkness 
and glided silently on. 

What was John to do ? The first gray of earlv 
dawn would betray his absence, and the angry 
Mohawks would be hot on his trail. He ran as 
fast as he could, trying to keep in the direction 


ON THE WAR-PATH. 


245 


of the river, often striking against tree-trunks, 
tangling in vines and bushes, stumbling over rocks 
or logs, sometimes wading in morasses. 

“ Can I but reach the river,” he thought, “ it 
will guide me to Lake Champlain. Then I can 
follow down the east shore of the lake to the end, 
and strike off to the south. So, mayhap, in time, 
I can reach home. I am enough of an Indian to 
get my living in the forest. An I chance to light 
on no Indians on the way I fear not but that I can 
reach home at last.” 

The stars began to pale. A bird or two twit- 
tered sleepily from the trees above. Dawn drew 
near. John must hide at once. Looking wildly 
about for some refuge, he saw in the dim light a 
huge old elm. It might have a hollow where he 
could hide. He ran to it. To his horror, out from 
behind its huge trunk silently glided a dark form. 
Before he could offer any resistance, his hands were 
bound behind him. He was again a captive. 

With habits learned of the Indians, John, beyond 
his first involuntary exclamation of surprise, uttered 
no cry. All had been done in silence. John 
supposed that he had been recaptured by the 
Mohawks. But as daylight grew, other Indians 
stepped forth from behind trees, logs, and rocks, 
until a large band of strange Indians stood re- 
vealed. They were the foes the Mohawks sought. 
John had run from the arms of the Mohawks into 


246 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

those of a band of Abenaquis who had wandered 
into this region on a hunting expedition. Discov- 
ering the Mohawks, they were hovering around 
them, watching for a fit time to attack them at a 
disadvantage. 

John felt that all was lost. His part now was 
to bear a cruel death as bravely as possible. 
“Endure hardness as a good soldier of Christ,” 
again came into his mind, as if sent from without 
himself to encourage him. Another verse also 
ran through his mind. “ Though He slay me, yet 
will I trust in Him.” 

“ ’T is little we ‘think of such promises when 
safe and snug at home,” he thought. “They go in 
at one ear, out the other. Now my soul takes 
refuge in them as my only hope. Dark as all 
seems, mayhap God can yet rescue me. I will 
still try to hope in Him.” 

The Abenaquis had more pressing business on 
hand than the torture of a prisoner, even had not 
daylight shown them that he was not, as they had 
supposed, one of the hated Iroquois, but an English 
captive. He was a prize indeed. He would sell 
to their allies, the French, for a goodly amount of 
blankets, powder, guns, even perhaps the coveted 
“ fire-water,” could the French traders evade the 
vigilance of the Jesuit fathers. But now they 
were away on the track of the Mohawks like a 
pack of wolves on the trail of a wounded deer. 


ON THE WAR-PATH. 


247 


John, still bound, was left in charge of a young 
brave. Soon, from the distance through the silent 
forest rang terrific war-whoops, the bang of guns, 
the wild yells of attackers and attacked. The 
Indian left to guard John grew restless. Unbind- 
ing his captive, pointing his gun significantly at 
him, he motioned hifn to precede him on the 
trail of the Mohawks. 

Nearing the scene of the battle, John was again 
hastily bound to a sapling and left, his guard 
bounding eagerly into the midst of the fight with 
loud, shrill whoop. 

A few Mohawks escaped into the forest, but 
most were either slain or taken captive. John 
was compelled to witness not only the bloody 
slaughter and scalping of many of his late com- 
rades. but, after the fight was over, the unspeak- 
able tortures inflicted on the wretched prisoners. 
Genajohhore, as chief, was selected for the most 
cruel torments. But his fierce, defiant battle-song 
only rose higher, as one by one his finger joints 
were hacked, twisted, even bitten off, or when the 
flames mounted around him till death hushed his 
voice. Then his conquerors tore out his heart and 
devoured it, eagerly drinking his blood, that the 
spirit of so valiant a foe might enter into their 
own. 

John, sick at heart as he was from beholding 
these revolting scenes, dared not show the disgust, 


248 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

the horror he felt, but tried to preserve an un- 
moved arid indifferent look. Any show of emotion 
would draw like torments on himself. He knew 
not what fate was reserved for him, but quietly 
braced himself for the worst, often thinking “ as 
a good soldier of Jesus Christ.” 

Late in the day, the Abenaquis, sated with the 
blood that smeared faces, hands, clothes, and 
weapons, bearing aloft in triumph the wet scalps 
of the Mohawks, unbound John, and took him 
away to the west. Reaching the broad Richelieu, 
looking almost a lake as its wide, full stream 
swept grandly on between its low shores, bearing 
the waters of Lake Champlain to the St. Lawrence, 
the Indians drew out their concealed canoes and 
paddled off up the river. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


TO QUEBEC. 

S UBMIT and Prudence, borne on to the north 
by Wadnummin and Petomanch, after skirt- 
ing the eastern shore of Lake Champlain, had also 
gone down the broad Richelieu. One morning, 
looking down the river from the canoe lying low 
on the water, their hearts leaped for joy to see 
rising in the distance against the sky on the right 
shore what seemed to be houses ! 

“ They cannot be true houses ; they must be 
wigwams,” said Prudence, unable to credit such 
good fortune. 

“ Nay, they are real houses, houses with roofs 
and walls, white people’s houses ! ” cried Submit, 
joyfully. 

The girls had not felt such a thrill of happiness 
since that doleful September day, years ago, it 
seemed, when they had joyously gone out with 
Jane for rushes, little dreaming of what sorrowful 
experience this trivial happening was to be the 
beginning. 

The canoe had reached rapids where the river 
boiled noisily down over and among rocks with 


250 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

wild tumult. Surely the Indians would land, and 
carry their canoe around this seemingly impassable 
stretch of rough, tumbling water ? No, to the 
girls’ terror, they shot boldly on into the midst of 
the turmoil. The girls were filled with dismay. 
Must they die now, when hope began to dawn at 
their first glimpse of civilization ? 

But the Indians well understood their business. 
The rapids, not only of the Richelieu, but of the 
St. Lawrence, were so familiar to them as to have 
no dangers. Petomanch at the prow steered the 
canoe skilfully among the rocks, while Wadnuin- 
min, his tall, straight form standing erect in the 
stern, deftly aided to guide the frail bark through 
the' torrent, foam and spray dashing all over the 
girls as they shot on down the tumultuous, whirl- 
ing rapids, coming safely out into the broad 
expanse of quiet water below the palisades of a 
fort built at the foot of the rapids. 

This was Fort Chambly. Under its protection 
nestled a little cluster of but ten houses. One, 
far superior to the others, was the home of the 
seignior in command of the little settlement, from 
whom it took its name. On the long strip of 
land stoutly fenced, running back from the seign- 
ior’s house, the glad eyes of the girls saw cattle 
and sheep quietly pasturing. The sails of a huge 
windmill standing within the walls of the fort 
flapped gently in the light breeze ; the lambs 


TO QUEBEC. 


251 


bleated long-drawn trembling ba-a-a’s, — pleasant, 
pleasant sounds these, breathing of quiet peace. 

Two women, untidy and rude in attire, yet wear- 
ing the garments of civilized white women, stood 
gossiping on the shore, one holding by the hand a 
barefoot yellow-headed youngster of three, and each 
bearing a baby in her arms. The excited girls tried 
to conceal their feelings of joy, lest their Indian 
masters take offence, and not stop at Chambly. 

The women, watching the Indians landing, soon 
perceived that the children whom they had at first 
taken for young squaws were really English 
captives. 

“ Les pauvres petites ! ” cried one, running to 
her house near by, returning with a half loaf of 
bread in her hand, yes, actually bread ! 

The other woman brought two pewter mugs of 
milk. The women understood the language of 
the girls’ eyes, if not their tongues, as they tried 
to express their thanks. 

The half-starved girls, who had tasted neither 
bread nor milk during the weary months of their 
captivity, and who had lived during their long 
journey from Squakeag over the Green Mountains 
and along Lake Champlain and the Richelieu, on 
sitch precarious game and fish as chance gave the 
Indians, meat eaten at irregular intervals, without 
salt, half cooked, smoked and burned from roast- 
ing before an open fire blown about in the wind, 


252 THE YOUNG PUKITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

could easily have devoured all the bread and milk, 
which tasted most delicious to them. But they 
knew it was wise to divide with their masters, 
who greedily devoured the lion’s share of the 
provisions as a matter of course, with no word of 
thanks. Still this kindness probably made them 
more ready to grant the women’s request, that the 
little girls be allowed to go to their homes and 
rest. They consented to leave the girls in care of 
the women, while they went to the fort, seeking 
to dispose of their captives. 

“ No try to run away,” said Petomanch 
threateningly, with a significant touch of his 
tomahawk, as he left them. 

The kind women, with many pitying and caress- 
ing words, which were music in the girls’ ears 
though they understood them not, took them into 
the house of one near by. When they saw the 
calloused, worn little hands, the feet sore, scarred 
and scratched by journeying over rocks and stones 
among the thorns and briers of the wilderness, 
they shed tears. A group of black-eyed, vivacious- 
looking French children stood around, gazing in 
childish wonder as their mothers bathed the swollen 
feet in warm water, and brought warm water, 
soap, and cloths, that the girls might try to 
remove some of the dirt encrusting their faces 
after so many months spent in the smoke of 
Indian wigwams. 


TO QUEBEC. 


253 


After giving them great bowls of bread and 
milk, eagerly devoured by the girls, the woman 
of the house beckoned them to another room, 
where she made them lie down on a soft bed of 
pigeon feathers, and throwing a blanket over 
them, left them to rest. Soothed, comforted, 
happy in the belief that their troubles w r ere 
now nearly over, the girls fell into such a deep, 
sweet sleep as they had not known during their 
captivity. 

They were wakened by their hostess, who made 
signs that they must rise and go. Her face was 
full of pity. 

Wadnummin and Petomanch had failed to dis- 
pose of their prisoners. The French officer would 
gladly have redeemed the poor young captives, but 
the greedy Indians refused to accept the sum he 
felt able to offer, thinking they could get more at 
Montreal or Quebec. Disappointed at this failure, 
the Indians had returned to the French woman’s 
house, to find their captives, as they supposed, hid 
with a view to stealing them. Enraged, they had 
threatened the woman so furiously that she had 
been forced to yield up the girls. 

The French women stood watching the canoe 
gliding swiftly off down the Richelieu, the two 
sorrowful little faces turning back to look at their 
kind friends until the bend in the river hid them 
from sight. 


254 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Ah, mon Dieu ! have pity on those poor little 
ones ! ” said one, wiping her eyes on her apron. 

“ Grieve not, mon amie ,” said her friend. 
“ Surely the Holy Mother will not long suffer 
these poor children to remain in the hands of the 
cruel savages. She will move the hearts of some 
of the noblesse at Montreal or Quebec, or the good 
nuns, to take pity on them. Let us to the Chapel, 
to the Virgin’s shrine, and pray her to watch over 
them and bring them safely where they will be 
trained in the true faith. The Son of Mary refuses 
nothing to his Holy Mother.” 

When the canoe reached the mouth of the Riche- 
lieu, it came out upon the broad tide of the 
noblest stream the girls had ever seen, the majestic 
St. Lawrence. Indeed, at first, seeing the opposite 
shore so dim and far away across the wide expanse 
known as Lake St. Peter, they thought this another 
great lake. But the canoe’s prow was turned 
easterly, the Indians having resolved first to try 
their fortune at “Kebec,” as being the head- 
quarters of the government, and the home of 
“ Onontio,” as they called the French governor. 
On, on, all day glided the little bark, down the 
great stream, looking helpless and insignificant on 
the swelling tide of the waters of the great lakes 
sweeping thus resistlessly ocean-ward. 

When the shades of night began to darken the 
solitary river, the Indians made for shore, built a 


TO QUEBEC. 


255 


fire, and cooked such food as fortune had that day 
sent them. , Sometimes they landed on islands for 
the eggs in the nests of water-fowl, or succeeded 
in shooting some of the birds. Sometimes Wad- 
nummin speared a great fish with a wooden spear 
he had made. One day he shot a fish with his 
bow and arrow. Sometimes, skirting the shore, 
they brought down a deer or other wild animal, 
coming down to the shore to drink or swim over. 

Hunger satisfied, the canoe was turned over 
near the fire, and under its cover the girls must 
creep with their masters, glad of even this shelter. 

One night they landed late. As the girls were 
trying to roast a wild duck over the fire, they 
heard exclamations from the Indians, who were 
gazing up at the sky in -unusual excitement. It 
wore, indeed, an appalling and wonderful aspect. 
All over the north the glare of a great fire seemed 
reflected on the angry heavens, which glowed a 
brilliant red, flaming, quivering, darting long rays 
of crimson up toward the zenith. Every cloud 
was tinged with red, and the river’s dark waters 
mirrored the ruddy glow. 

“ The War Spirit speaks ! There is blood on 
the sky. There will be a great war,” said the 
Indians, in tones of awe. 

“Dost think ’t is the Day of Judgment, Sub- 
mit ? ” whispered Prudence, clasping her friend’s 
cold hand, which trembled in hers. 


256 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Perchance. I know not. ’T were wondrous 
beautiful to look upon, were it not so fearsome,” 
said Submit, her pale face dimly seen in the dull 
red glow. 

The Indians crouched on the ground in their 
attitude denoting reverence, their hands laid on 
their mouths, muttering invocations to the War 
Spirit, while the equally frightened girls watched 
the sky until gradually the shifting crimson waned 
and faded, and darkness resumed its sway. 

The next day they met the first canoe they had 
encountered. It was paddled by a man roughly 
dressed in buckskin. Its one passenger was dressed 
in a fashion new to the girls. He wore a long 
black robe, and a low-crowned black hat, whose 
wide rim was looped up at the sides with black 
cord. He held with utmost care a package evi- 
dently most precious, lest any ill chance happen 
to it in the frail bark. 

“ It is the Black Robe from Kebec. He goes to 
pow-wow,” said Wadnummin, as the priest made 
a friendly sign of recognition when the two 
canoes passed each other. The good father was 
going with his portable chapel to minister to the 
spiritual needs of the scattered cotes along the 
river's northern shore. 

As they were now nearing Quebec, they often 
met other canoes, some loaded with merchandise 
bound for Three Rivers, or even Montreal, to be 


TO QUEBEC. 


257 


traded with the Indians for furs ; some bearing a 
rough party of coureurs de hois back to their wil- 
derness haunts ; some filled with Indians who had 
been to Quebec trading their peltry, — Indians at 
sight of whom Petomanch and Wadnummin hugged 
the river’s southern shore, ready to land and dash 
away into the woods, should they prove unfriendly. 

At last the anxious girls, whose eager eyes con- 
stantly scanned the shore, looking everywhere to 
learn if possible the fate awaiting them in this 
strange land into which they were being borne, 
so far, far away, saw down the stream high land 
rising on the northern shore. Drawing nearer, 
this high land towered up picturesquely, — a bold, 
rocky cliff, jutting out into the river. On the 
brink of this cliff, high above their heads, stood a 
fort, half of palisades, half of stone. Over it floated 
the fleur-de-lys of France. Other large buildings 
stood on the rock. From the tower of one a large 
cross rose against the sky, clearly defined in the 
May sunshine. On the strand beneath the cliff 
were moored several boats and canoes, and a 
cluster of small houses nestled alongshore under 
the shadow of the overhanging rock. 

“ Kebec,” said Wadnummin laconically, as he 
and Petomanch ran their canoe up the strand. 

Quebec ! Here, then, their fate would be decided. 
Surely in this abode of civilized people there must 
be some relief, thought the unhappy girls. 

17 


258 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

As the Indians were busy, Submit whispered 
low in Prudence’s ear, — 

44 I will never go away again into the wilderness 
with these savages.* 

44 Nor I,” said Prudence. 

44 1 will beg some one to take pity on us. Or 
I ’ll leap off yon bold rock into the water, and 
escape once for all, an they drive me to it,” said 
Submit. 

44 Oh, Submit, thou must not talk so desper- 
ately,” said Prudence. 

44 1 feel desperate when I think of going back 
into that savagery, perhaps forever,” said Submit, 
tears filling her eyes. 

The girls, at the Indians’ bidding, shouldered 
packs of furs, and bent under the heavy burdens, 
toiled along the narrow street of the Lower Town 
to a large building near the water front, whose 
size and its two great towers made it loom up 
conspicuous above the red peaked roofs of the 
small buildings around. It was the warehouse 
of the French Fur Company, where all the furs 
brought in by Indians and traders were assorted 
and packed for France. 

The Indians sold their furs here for so large 
an amount of powder that they came out good- 
natured, even though the traders had refused 
them the coveted 44 fire-water,” not daring sell 
brandy to Indians under the very eyes of the 


TO QUEBEC. 


259 


Jesuit fathers, who waged relentless war against 
this practice, so fatal to their own self-sacrificing 
efforts to redeem and elevate the savages. Wad- 
nummin and Petomanch now* turned their steps 
up the steep Mountain Street leading to the Upper 
Town, the girls, who toiled behind them laden with 
burdens, attracting hardly a glance from people 
they met, Indians being an every-day sight on 
Quebec’s streets, and the girls being readily taken 
for young squaws by casual observers. 

As they climbed slowly up the steep hill, the 
bells of the cathedral began ringing musically, 
their chimes a benediction in the girls’ ears. They 
came out in the square, around which stood great 
stone buildings most impressive to the little Puri- 
tan maidens, reared among the woods of the Con- 
necticut Valley. Here was the great cathedral 
holding its cross aloft, the Chateau or Castle of 
St. Louis, the abode of the Governor, Frontenac, 
the Ursuline Convent, and, a little lower down, 
the Hotel Dieu. 

. The Indians turned to the left, towards the 
entrance of the court of the Chateau St. Louis. 
They were stopped by the sentinel in gorgeous 
uniform, pacing up and down beforq the entrance 
of the Governor’s residence, who extending his 
musket, cried , — 

“ Qui vive ? ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 

HE Indians had no difficulty in disposing of 



1 their prisoners, whose sad plight excited 
great sympathy when it was known that these 
were two little English maids who had languished 
for months in savage captivity. Frontenac him- 
self gave orders for their redemption, moved 
equally by humane pity for the children, and his 
wonted policy of winning influence over all Indian 
tribes likely to be able to lend France powerful 
aid in her coming struggle with England for the 
possession of the North American continent. 

The Indians received no money for the captives, 
New France being at this time destitute of coin. 
A recent act of the council had made moose-skins 
legal tender in payment of all debts. But powder, 
guns, hatchets, and knives, to the value of thirty 
crowns apiece for their captives, sent the Indians 
home well pleased. When they again reached 
the Connecticut Valley, they loudly sounded the 
praises of the great Onontio, the Governor of 
Canada, as a kind, bountiful father to his red 
children. At the end of King Philip’s War many 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 261 

fugitive New England Indians sought refuge in 
Canada, to be for years valuable allies to the 
French and a terrible scourge to the English 
border settlements. 

With joy unspeakable the girls watched Wad- 
numrnin and Petomanch turn and go down the 
Mountain Street until the tip of the last feather 
on their bare heads had disappeared forever. Then 
they anxiously wondered what fate was now to 
be theirs. They soon learned that they were to 
be separated. Prudence was given to the wife of 
a French officer needing a servant, while Submit 
was placed for the present with the nuns of the 
Ursuline Nunnery. 

Although the girls felt homesick and depressed 
in this land of strangers, so hopelessly remote 
from home, yet it was a comfort beyond expres- 
sion simply to be clean again, to drop off and see 
destroyed their filthy Indian garb, and be dressed 
in neat and comfortable clothes ; to sleep again 
in a bed under a roof with a feeling of perfect 
safety, and to have regular and sufficient food. 
Their wasted forms began to grow plump, and 
color returned to the wan, pinched young faces. 

Madame Rochemont, Prudence’s mistress, was 
greatly shocked when she discovered the religious 
ignorance of her little English servant. With a 
laudable desire to give her suitable religious 
opportunities, Madame sent the child to mass 


262 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

with her maid, Angelique, soon after her arrival. 
Prudence gazed with open-eyed wonder on the 
carved crucifixes and statues, the image of the 
Virgin holding the Holy Child, the magnificence 
of the altar with its blaze of candles, and its min- 
istering priests arrayed in splendid vestments. 
The chanting, the service in an unknown tongue, 
the coming and going and bowing, all impressed 
her. Never had the child’s eyes seen aught like 
this. But suddenly she bethought herself, — 

“ But this is Papistry. Have I not oft heard 
my father and Mr. Russell say that the outward 
shows of the Papists were but Satan’s delusions, 
set as a trap for the souls of the unwary ? I must 
harden my heart against it all, pleasing though 
it be.” 

So when Angelique motioned the child to 
imitate herself in the use of the holy water and 
the sign of the cross, to her amazement, Prudence 
refused to obey. Nor would she kneel with Ange- 
lique before the shrine of the Virgin or at the 
shrines of the saints, remaining obstinately stand- 
ing, pale, but firmly resolved not to yield in the 
least to what she believed a false religion. 

Angelique sputtered angrily in French at her all 
the way home, and hastened to report to Madame 
Rochemont the new maid’s strange perversity. 

“ Behold, Madame, although so young, the child 
is a heretic of incredible obstinacy,” said Ange- 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 


263 


lique. “I blushed for her, standing stiff as a 
post before the Holy Altar. Nor could I bend 
her.” 

“ Send her to me,” said Madame. 

Prudence was brought into the boudoir, where 
sat Madame, fair, elegant, and stately, in a robe of 
silk so marvellous in Prudence’s eyes that she 
thought involuntarily, — 

“ W ould that my Cousin Hannah could gaze 
on that robe ! ” 

Madame fortunately could speak English, hav- 
ing lived in England as a child. She had changed 
Prudence’s name to “ Charite,” as more pleasing. 

“Why didst not thou obey Angelique and 
kneel in the church, the proper place for prayer, 
Charite ? ” she asked kindly. “ I know thou 
prayest at home in thy chamber; why not in 
church, the House of God ? ” 

“ I dare not bow down to Baal,” said the little 
Puritan, thinking about the martyrs in Fox’s Book 
of Martyrs at home, and resolved to stand as firm 
for the truth as they, be the consequences what 
they might. 

“Dare not speak disrespectfully of our Holy 
Faith, ignorant child,” cried Madame. “ Knowest 
thou not that God hath mercifully and wondrously 
brought thee, even by the hands of savages, here 
into this land of His Most Christian Majesty, 
Louis the Fourteenth, expressly that thou mightest 


264 THE YOUNG PUllITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

be trained in the true faith, and thy soul saved 
from the everlasting torments of hell ? ” 

“ My father and mother have taught me the 
true faith, and I will ever cleave unto it,” said 
Prudence. 

After further laboring with the child without 
avail, Madame said, — 

• “ My duty is plain, Charite. If thou wilt not 
listen to reason, thou must be made to obey.” 

Prudence received a sound whipping, and was 
at last obliged to yield so far as to repeat after 
Madame in Latin the Ave and the Pater , comfort- 
ing herself by thinking, — 

“ As I know not the meaning of these mum- 
meries, perchance ’t will not harm my soul. But, 
0 God, forgive me ! ” 

But nothing, not even another whipping, could 
induce Prudence again to enter the cathedral. 
Madame Rochemont, in despair, consulted her 
priest, who said, — 

“ The English were ever an obstinate race, hard 
to dr^ve, and their heresy is deep-rooted, and the 
most hateful to God of all heresies. T is best to 
try gentle measures. Send her for instruction to 
the Ursuline sisters. Surely these good sisters, 
who have been God’s instruments in rescuing from 
eternal torments the souls of so many little wild- 
ings among the savages, cannot fail to have 
granted to their prayers the soul of this white 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 265 

child, plainly brought here miraculously for her 
salvation.” 

“ She is so obstinate I doubt that e’en the good 
sisters can win her,” said Madame. 

“ She is but young,” said the priest. “ Soon 
she will forget the heretical teachings of her child- 
hood, and growing up amid holy influences, must 
become a good Catholic. So have patience, good 
Madame, I pray you.” 

“ The other little English captive who is with 
the nuns is most docile,” said Madame. “ But one 
can see at a glance that she hath French blood in 
her veins. I would she had fallen to my lot, 
rather than this stubborn little blue-eyed English 
maid.” 

“ Thy merit will not be overlooked by the good 
Jesus and his Holy Mother, if thy faith and perse- 
verance save this soul from perdition,” said the 
father. 

To the Ursuline Nunnery near by Prudence was 
now sent daily for some hours’ instruction in the 
school kept by the nuns for both Indian and 
French children, in the convent founded by 
Madame de la Peltrie in 1639. It was a great 
compensation that she now saw Submit every 
day. As soon as Prudence saw Submit, she was 
struck with the contented, happy look her face 
wore, — a look never seen before on Submit’s 
face, 


266 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

The girls did not see each other alone, until one 
day at recreation hour. They were walking in the 
garden with high walls, beneath the gray stone 
walls of the convent, through whose narrow win- 
dows floated out the voices of the nuns sweetly 
chanting in the choir of their little chapel. Pru- 
dence hastened, before they should be interrupted, 
.to confide to Submit her recent experiences, 
adding, — 

“ I hope, Submit, thou too wilt not waver, or 
yield to the enticements of Satan. The Indians, 
we know, are the devil's own children, and doubt- 
less he, their father, moved them to bring us here 
among the Papists. I doubt not, an we stand 
firm, God will yet redeem us and bring us home 
again.” 

Submit was silent a moment. Then she said 
reluctantly, not liking to pain her friend, yet feel- 
ing bound to tell the truth, — 

“ I care not much, in truth, e’er to go back to 
Hadley.” 

“ Submit!” exclaimed Prudence, “what meanest 
thou ? ” 

“What have I to go back to ?” cried Submit, 
hot tears filling her eyes. “ To be a bound slave 
to Widow Burnham ? ’T is not as though I had 
a dear home, and loving parents like thine, pining 
for my return. No one cares about me. Hadley 
is not my home. I have no home. The good 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 267 

nuns are most kind to me. I love them, and their 
gentle ways and speech. I would ever abide with 
them.” 

66 Thou wouldst not become a Papist ? ” asked 
Prudence, with bated breath, tears filling her 
eyes too. 

“ An I should, what harm ? ” asked Submit. 

“ Ob, Submit,” gasped Prudence, so shocked 
that she forgot all her arguments. Then rallying, 
she cried : “ I marvel at thee, Submit ! Papistry 
is a delusive snare of Satan. ’T is not the true 
religion. Thy soul will be forever lost ! ” 

“ How do we know that it is not the truth ? ” 
asked Submit. “ Mr. Russell saith one way, the 
Jesuits and nuns another. One may be as true as 
the other, for aught you and I can tell. Lovest 
thou not the beauty of the churches and the 
services here, Pruda?” 

“ They are passing beautiful, but I love them 
not. I abhor them, and set my face against 
them. They are Satan’s device to entrap souls,” 
maintained Pruda, stoutly. 

“ Doth it not seem to thee, Pruda,” continued 
Submit, earnestly, “ that God, who made every- 
thing beautiful, would delight to have His house 
beautiful too ? Knowest not that our Bible saith, 
6 1 will praise thee in the beauty of the sanctuary ’ ? 
There is not much beauty in the bare wooden 
meeting-house in Hadley.” 


268 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ It will look beautiful to me an e’er the sight of 
it gladden my eyes again,” said Prudence, weep- 
ing. “ Oh, Submit, I cannot answer thee. I can- 
not understand thy strangeness. But I know thy 
soul is in mortal peril. I shall cling to the faith of 
my fathers, tho’ the Papists slay me. And I shall 
pray for thee, too, that Satan devour thee not.” 

In truth, Submit’s beauty-loving, poetic na- 
ture, hitherto starved amid the bareness and 
hardness of Puritan outward forms or lack of 
forms, found deep delight and satisfaction in the 
impressive rites and ceremonies of the Roman 
Catholic church. In Prudence every atom of the 
blood inherited from a far back Puritan ancestry 
instinctively revolted against the Catholic church. 
But in Submit’s case, with her strain of foreign, 
probably Catholic blood, the church ministered to 
deep needs of her nature, to mystic cravings here- 
tofore unsatisfied. 

Kneeling in the sacred quiet of the nunnery’s 
little chapel, before picture or statue of the Virgin 
Mother tenderly clasping the Holy Infant in her 
arms, with deep yearnings the motherless child 
again took the name of “ Mother ” on her lips. 
She almost fancied that a look of pity, an answer- 
ing look of love, stole over the Madonna’s tender 
face in the dim, holy light. How easy to pray, 
to tell her sorrows to this gentle mother, who had 
suffered as no other ! 


TIIE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 


269 


Submits docility and her brightness, the quick- 
ness with which she learned the French language, 
and her skill in embroidery, all made her a favorite 
with the nuns. They had promised her that soon 
she should be baptized under the name of Fran- 
cesca Ursula, the last name in honor of the nun- 
nery’s patron saint, who had no doubt aided in 
Submit’s rescue. Surrounded by love and gentle- 
ness, in a life so suited to her tastes, it is not 
strange that the friendless child clung to the kind 
nuns, dreading a possible return to Hadley. Life, 
which had stretched out before her dreary and 
forlorn, now took on serene if not bright hues. In 
fancy Submit saw herself a nun, good and gentle, 
serving God, as did the nuns, by creating beauti- 
ful embroidery and artificial flowers for His altars, 
by nursing the sick, teaching the savages, in 
prayer and chant, until at last the Heavenly 
Father in His kindness should take her to her 
own mother. 

Submit’s dearest hope was that Prudence might 
yet be brought to see the beauty of Catholicism, 
and become a nun with her friend. It must be so. 
What happiness that would be ! Thus each little 
friend was in all sincerity and earnestness pray- 
ing for the safety and salvation of the other, 
though, finding how widely they at present differed, 
they henceforth avoided the disputed topic. 

We mortals look on into the future, thinking 


270 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

we see what there awaits us, and plan and hope 
and fear according to these dreams. But God’s 
ways are not as our ways, and often, in a day, a 
moment, something never dreamed of in all our 
visions of the future happens, and lo, all is changed. 

One September afternoon the nuns sent Submit 
with a basket containing some delicacies from their 
slender stores to a sick woman in the Lower Town. 
She had called for Prudence. Madame Rochemont 
had willingly consented that Prudence should 
accompany Submit, having heard from the nuns 
of Submit’s desirable spiritual condition, and 
hoping much from her influence over her obsti- 
nate friend. 

Prudence was only too happy to go out in the 
brilliant September day with her dear friend, 
loved as tenderly as ever in spite of the difference 
in religion that had sprung up between them. 

As the friends walked on together, they made a 
prettily contrasted pair. Submit was dressed in a 
gown of coarse black serge with a broad white col- 
lar. The background of the black gown threw into 
brighter relief her great black eyes, her clear olive 
skin, her cheeks where a faint pink bloomed 
delicately. From under her plain little white cap 
her dark hair flowed in a waving, curling mass of 
brown shot with golden lights where the sunlight 
struck it. 

Prudence too wore the black gown required of 


the unexpected happens. 271 

all the nunnery pupils. But Madame Rochemont’s 
French taste and love of dress had added for home 
wear touches of color in a bright scarf around her 
neck, and an embroidered cap on her head, both 
of which ornaments Prudence could not help 
secretly feeling most desirable, though Good wife 
Ellis would doubtless have regarded them with 
horror. Prudence’s cheeks too had regained their 
normal color and plumpness, and her golden hair 
flowed unrestrained over her shoulders. 

The girls could not resist stopping a moment, ere 
descending, to look down on the beautiful land- 
scape spread out beneath Cape Diamond, then, as 
now, one of the fairest views the sun shines on. 
Below them \a,y the broad St. Lawrence gleaming 
in the sunlight, sweeping on until the green Isle 
of Orleans shut off further sight of its majestic 
course oceanward. From the great, overhanging 
granite rock they looked down on a wide sweep of 
forest on all sides, fading away into the blueness 
of distant mountains, — forest broken only occa- 
sionally here and there by a few farmhouses, the 
beginnings of rude seigniories. 

“ Oh, Prudence,” said Submit, “ I am to have 
such a treat ! Sister Gabrielle is so pleased with 
my embroidery that she hath promised to take me 
with herself and some of the other sisters on a 
pilgrimage to the shrine of La Bonne St. Anne, — 
St. Anne, the Mother of the Virgin, thou knowest.” 


272 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Humph,” was Prudence’s unenthusiastic reply. 

“ ’T is a shrine of wondrous efficacy, Sister 
Gabrielle saith, ’’continued Submit, not discouraged. 
“ Great miracles of healing are oft wrought there. 
And there one may see a most beautiful painting 
of St. Anne and the Virgin Mary, by a great 
French artist, Le Brun, — such a lovely picture as 
our eyes ne’er rested on. And there we can see 
the magnificent chasuble of gold embroidery worked 
by Queen Anne’s own hands, - — Queen Anne, the 
mother of His Most Christian Majesty, our King 
Louis Fourteenth, which she hath presented to the 
shrine ! ” 

“ King Louis is not my king,” interrupted Pru- 
dence. “ 1 am a subject of good King Charles. 
I am English, not French ; and so art thou, 
Submit.” 

“ There are many other wonders to be seen 
there,” said Submit, ignoring this remark. “ Then 
we go by canoe down this great river, and on the 
way we pass a wonderful cataract, where the 
water leaps down the rocks two hundred and fifty 
feet ! See, yonder is where the cataract poureth 
over,” said Submit, pointing down the river to 
a break in the high banks on its left shore. 
“Wouldst not love to go with us, Pruda, and see 
all these wonders ? I will beg Sister Gabrielle to 
implore Madame to let thee go.” 

“ I care not to go,” said Prudence, somewhat 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 273 

stiffly. Then, to change the subject, she said, 
pointing to a sailing-vessel moored below, whose 
size made it conspicuous among the canoes and 
bateaux swarming around it, — 

“ Look, Submit, yonder is moored a ship freshly 
arrived from France. See all the bustle, the 
coming and going to and from her in t the town 
below ! Madame doth hope for letters from 
France by her, Angelique saith.” 

“ And Mother Angelica hopeth it brings the 
bombazine for fresh veils that she wrote to France 
for last autumn. The poor nuns have naught 
but rags on their heads for want of it,” said 
Submit, looking down on the strange vessel, whose 
salt-splashed, sea-worn sides spoke vividly of ocean 
storms. “ ’T is a great event here in New France 
when a vessel saileth in from France. But ’t is 
naught to us,” added Submit, as the girls turned 
to go down the hill. 

“ Nay, verily,” said Prudence heartily, glad to 
be able conscientiously to agree with Submit in 
something. 

As the girls began to descend the steep Mountain 
Street, they saw below them, slowly toiling up the 
ascent, his head bent in deep thought, a man 
dressed as a French sailor. 

“ Yon cometh one of the seafaring men now,” 
said Prudence, “ doubtless on some errand to the 
Chateau, to Count Frontenac.” 

18 


274 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ It mindeth me of my dear daddy to see a 
sailor,” said Submit sadly, gazing earnestly at the 
sailor. 

The sailor, drawing nearer, raised his head at the 
sound of voices. His eye caught Submit’s. He 
gave a great start, exclaiming “ What ! Is it 
Francesca ? ” 

To Prudence’s amazement, Submit suddenly 
dropped her basket and ran towards this stranger. 

“ She is distracted ! ” thought Prudence. 

The sailor, a man who had known great sorrow 
and hardship, as he toiled up the hill, was think- 
ing sadly, — 

“ Why should I rejoice in my rescue ? What 
have I to live for ? Wife gone, child gone, old 
and alone in the world, why should I — ” 

But what is this he sees, as he mechanically 
raises his sad eyes ? Is it a vision ? He seems to 
see, floating down to him as from heaven, Fran- 
cesca, the bride of his youth, in all the fresh 
bloom and beauty of her lovely maidenhood ! 

Stupefied with wonder, he stops. But the bright 
vision runs to him ; she throws her arms about 
him, weeping and laughing at once, crying out 
his amazed ears know not what. 

“ Who art thou ? Art thou a vision from 
heaven ? ” he cries. “ Hast come back to me, 
my lost Francesca ? ” 

“ Oh, father, ’t is I, thy own little lass, Fran- 


THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS. 275 

cesca ! ’’ cries Submit. “ Dost not know me, 
daddy? 0h ? daddy, daddy, my own, own dear 
daddy ! I thought thou wast surely dead, and I 
should ne’er see thee more ! ” 

Her father, realizing at last that this fair 
young maiden was really his own child, the little 
girl he had left in Boston and thought never to 
see again, clasped her tight in his arms, with fond 
kisses, and cries of “ My God, I thank thee ! ” 
The rapture of that moment more than atoned 
for all the lonely hardship Submit had known as 
a drudging bound-girl. 


CHAPTER XX. 


ANOTHER SURPRISE, 


HERE was much to hear and tell on both 



X sides. Prudence, rejoicing in her friend’s 
joy, hastened back with her and her father to the 
nunnery, where the good nuns, delighted by this 
newly found happiness of their favorite pupil, 
sent, as they were careful to remind her, by St. 
Ursula in reward for her devotion and obedience, 
gave them the undisturbed use of the nunnery’s 
little grated parlor. Prudence, as she watched 
the happy pair, thought with a great longing, — 

“ Oh, shall I too again see my dear parents ? ” 
Submit told her father all the story of her hard 
life since he had left her, — a story listened to by 
the sailor with frowning face, with tear-dimmed 
eyes, and not without a half smothered-oath now 
and then ; the arm lovingly encircling Submit 
tightening its embrace, as if to shield her, even 
now, from the hardships she had borne. 

“ Never mind, sweetheart,” he interrupted 
finally, “ never mind. Tell me no more now. In 
truth, I cannot bear to think on ’t. Daddy will 
make it all up to his darling, thou wilt see,” he 


ANOTHER SURPRISE. 


277 


added fondly, looking tenderly on the flushed face 
of his child, so radiant with love for him. At last 
to belong to some one, to be loved and cherished 
thus, to have some one of her very own to love, 
— ah, how incredible seemed such happiness to 
Submit ! 

In her father’s fond eyes, ne’er had been seen so 
beautiful a creature as this little maiden, miracu- 
lously restored to him. 

“ Please God, not so much as a rough wind 
shall e’er blow again on her pretty head,” he 
thought. 

“ But, daddy, where wert thou all those weary 
years ? Why didst thou stay away so long from 
me ?” asked Submit. 

“ Ah, lassie, thy daddy too has seen hard fare 
and stormy seas. ’T is a long, dark tale,” said 
her father. 

Then, in the dear, familiar voice that Submit 
had thought never again to hear, her father 
briefly told his story. On his outward trip his 
vessel had suffered the ill fortune to be attacked 
by the Turkish pirates infesting the high seas. 
Many of the crew r were slain, but Cartier was 
captured, and taken to Algiers. There he had 
languished in what seemed a hopeless captivity. 
At first he was kept as a galley slave, chained to 
an oar, bent to the hardest labor under a merciless 
taskmaster’s whip. 


278 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Noticing Submit’s paling cheek and quivering 
lip as he spoke of his hunger, his nakedness, cold, 
and suffering, the beatings he received, the sailor 
hastened to say, — 

“ But all that is past now, thanks be to God. 
We will think no more on those dark days, lass,” 
and turned to a brighter topic, his escape. 

His first master had sold him to a Moor, who 
kept him as a house slave. His lot was now 
much easier. Making the best of his situation, 
Cartier proved himself so ready, quick-witted, and 
serviceable that his master gradually came to give 
him more liberty, often sending him out alone on 
errands. 

Another slave in the Moor’s household for whom 
Cartier felt deep pity was a young Frenchman, 
Pierre de Caen. The vessel in which he had 
sailed only from Gaspe to Bordeaux had been 
captured near the coast of Brittany by Turkish 
pirates, and this youth, scion of a noble family 
in France, sold into slavery. Unable to let his 
family know his fate, Pierre’s health soon became 
so broken by the hardships of the galleys that his 
Turkish master, thinking: his slave had not long: 
to live, had gladly sold him for a small sum to the 
Moor. Pierre’s strength continued failing, be- 
tween despair and the burden of labors new to 
him, and peculiarly severe to one delicately nur- 
tured. Apparently death would soon free the 


ANOTHER SURPRISE. 279 

wasted young captive. Indeed, he longed for 
death as his only possible release. 

Cartier showed Pierre all the kindness in his 
power. When at last he saw a possible chance of 
escape, he risked discovery and recapture, sure to 
be followed - by the worst cruelties, in order to 
rescue the young Frenchman also. 

“ He was young. All his life was before him. 
He had home and friends and wealth waiting for 
him. I was old and poor, and, as I thought, alone 
in the world. Who cared for Jack Cartier ? Was 
my old carcase worth so much to me that I could 
not risk somewhat to save poor Pierre ? ” asked 
Cartier. 

“ Ah, daddy, thou art so good, so noble,” said 
Submit, laying her cheek lovingly on his rough 
sleeve. 

“ Nay, lass, far from that. Thou little know- 
est. Thy daddy is a poor scamp of a sailor, 
with sins a plenty to answer for, but, thank God, 
not that of deserting poor Pierre to save my own 
skin.” 

Cartier had managed to secure a little rowboat 
that, as he went about on errands, he had noticed 
moored in an accessible spot. One night when all 
slept, in the midst of a terrible storm which favored 
their escape undetected, he and Pierre had stolen 
forth and embarked in this small, open boat, Car- 
tier pushing away from the hated shore of Morocco, 


280 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


and heading north, as well as he could judge in 
the darkness and storm. Better be drowned than 
tarry longer a slave. 

When morning dawned, the flying captives were 
out of sight of land, tossing on a rough sea. At 
night Cartier guided the boat by the north star 
when visible. His strong arms and familiarity 
'with the sea came into good play. After floating 
for three days, when at the last point of exhaus- 
tion from hunger, thirst, and exposure, a sail 
loomed up across the water. Was it another 
pirate craft? 

“ The lilies of France float at her mast ! ” cried 
Pierre at last, when near enough to discern the 
flag. “ Now, praise be to the Blessed Virgin and 
her Holy Son, we are saved, can we but attract 
the crew’s attention.” 

The look-out on the mast-head of the French 
ship at last discerned the white signal desperately 
waving low down on the waves from the tossing 
boat ; the escaped captives were rescued, and borne 
into the port of Marseilles, where Christian people, 
’ever full of compassion for Turkish captives, aided 
them to reach Pierre’s home. The young son, long 
since given up as dead, was welcomed by his 
parents and friends with joy not to be imagined, 
and the gratitude to the brave English sailor who 
had rescued his companion in suffering sought 
vent in many acts and expressions of kindness. 


ANOTHER SURPRISE. 


281 


Pierre rapidly regained health and strength under 
the tender care of his family. 

“ Monsieur the Baron insisted that I should 
remain with him, as one of his family. But, 
finding that my heart was set on returning to the 
New English settlements, naught would satisfy 
him but I must take a purse of gold, — enough, 
little lass, to put a roof over thy head, and make 
thee and thy old daddy comfortable, an we have 
no more ill fortune. The good baron also paid my 
passage to New France on a French vessel sailing 
from Rochelle. I planned to go as soon as pos- 
sible from Quebec to Boston, and there leave not 
a stone unturned to find my little lass. But my 
heart was heavy within me, doubting that thou 
wert still living, or, if thou wert, whether I could 
track thee after these weary years. As I was 
thinking thus despairingly, 1 lifted my eyes, and 
lo, my darling walked into my arms ! The image 
of thy mother art thou, little Francesca.” 

“ God has been most kind, to give us each other 
again, daddy,” murmured Submit. 

“ Yea, that I feel, lass, to the bottom of my 
heart,” said the father. “ Please God, thy daddy 
purposeth to be a better man hereafter.” 

“ Thou couldst ne’er have been bad, daddy,” 
said Submit, looking up at her father with the 
fond faith of childhood in its idols. 

“ Ah, sweetheart, this is a rough, hard world, 


282 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

and thou knowest not much of its ways, thank 
God,” said the sailor. “ In truth, I am not one 
of the elect. I ’ve been no saint.” 

Cartier intended to sail for Boston in the first 
English trading-vessel that might come into Que- 
bec from that port. But how secure the release 
of the two little captives ? For Submit could not 
for an instant think of leaving behind her dear 
Pruda. She had told her father much of Good- 
wife Ellis’s kindness to her, almost the only spot 
of brightness in her old, hard life as a bound girl. 

“ Fret not thyself, lass, about thy friend,” said 
her father. “ Thy daddy will bring her off with 
thee by hook or by crook. Can I take that good 
woman’s child home to her arms again, ’t will in 
part repay her goodness to thee, and be in some 
sort a thank offering to the Lord for his unmerited 
goodness to me.” 

No one was allowed to go from Quebec to the 
English colonies without a passport, given by the 
authorities only after a stern and strict examina- 
tion. But Cartier expected to have no difficulty, 
for Baron de Caen was a distant relation as well 
as friend of Count Frontenac, and had sent the 
Count a letter by Cartier setting forth in glowing 
terms the great service done him by the sailor, 
and begging Frontenac to render in return any 
good services in his power to aid Cartier’s return 
to Boston. 


ANOTHER SURPRISE. 


283 


New France was at this time suffering from a 
lack of sailors and pilots, and Frontenac would 
gladly have induced Cartier to remain, and devote 
his experience and native energy to building up 
the cod fisheries, which the more energetic, force- 
ful English threatened to absorb, though at the 
very doors of the Canadian empire. 

“ His Majesty is most desirous of developing 
our fisheries,” said Frontenac. “ They are our 
true mines, where lies our greatest wealth. Yet, 
for lack of men trained to the sea, we are forced 
to lie still and see our fisheries enrich the Boston- 
nais at our expense. Remain here and thou shalt 
be no loser, I promise thee.” 

But Cartier persisted in declining Frontenac’s 
tempting offers. 

“ I ’ve sailed under the English flag too long 
to turn Frenchman now,” he secretly thought. 

Nevertheless Count Frontenac generously aided 
Cartier in the ransom of Submit and Prudence, 
and at last the two girls saw themselves again 
free. The good nuns insisted that they should be 
the guests of the Ursuline Nunnery so long as they 
stayed in Quebec, improving this last opportunity 
to ply them with religious instructions. 

Cartier stopped at the tavern of Jacques Boisdon, 
which he was allowed to keep on the square, next 
to Notre Dame Cathedral, for the convenience of 
worshippers, though he was forbidden to entertain 


284 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

guests during high mass, sermons, catechism, or 
vespers. 

To the equal satisfaction of herself and the 
nuns, Submit was baptized under the nam'e of 
Francesca Ursula. Prudence was now obliged to 
try to call her friend Francesca, both Submit and 
her father abjuring the old name, hated symbol of 
the child’s slavery as a bound girl. 

At last came a day when into the port of 
Quebec sailed the longed-for English vessel. Look- 
ing down from the heights above, the girls saw the 
cross of St. George flying from the mast of a large 
coasting-vessel, the Salamander. 

“ I feel myself almost at home already, only to 
see the English colors once more,” said Prudence, 
gazing eagerly at the fluttering red flag. 

“ Had I not found my dear daddy, I would far 
rather have stayed here with the nuns than go 
back to New England,” said Francesca “ But 
now ’t is my joy to go where’er he goeth. We 
shall ne’er be parted again, he saith.” 

“ Soon we shall sail ! ” cried Prudence, joyfully. 
“ I cannot wait to see my father and mother.” 

Both were silent a few moments in happy 
content. Then Prudence said, — 

“In those dark days when we were captives 
among the Indians, — days I shudder to think on, 
— dost remember, Sub — a — Francesca, how oft- 
times our faith failed, and we thought God had 
forgotten us ? ” 


ANOTHER SURPRISE. 285 

“ Yea, I remember it full well,” said Francesca. 
“ I can ne’er forget.” 

“And now it seemeth as if thou badst been 
brought all this dark, hard way, expressly to find 
thy father. He might ne’er have found thee 
hadst thou stayed so far inland as Hadley, thy 
name being changed too.” 

“ I oft think of it, and many a time on my 
knees before God’s altar my heart sings praises 
and craves pardon for my doubts. It is all 
plain now.” 

“ Yet, in truth, I see not why I should have been 
brought away to Canada,” said Prudence. 

“ Why, so that my daddy might rescue thee 
too,” said Francesca. “ Thou mightest have stayed 
among the Indians forever, borne far away by 
them, none knowing where thou wert, growing up 
to be a very Indian thyself perchance.” 

“ I could not have lived. I should have died, I 
know,” said Prudence. 

Here the girls’ attention was attracted by an un- 
usual uproar in the public square on which fronted 
the Cathedral and the Chateau. The blood left 
their cheeks as they recognized that sound so full 
of terrible associations, the Indian war-whoop ! 

“ What can it be ? What doth it mean ? ” cried 
the girls, clinging to each other in fright. 

At this moment Cartier appeared, returning 
from the Lower Town. 


286 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Oh, daddy, don’t let the Indians get us again ! ” 
cried Francesca, running to her father and wildly 
clasping him. 

“ Nay, nay, lass,” said her father, soothing her 
fears ; “ little danger of that. ’T is but a band of 
Abenaquis, allies of the French, who celebrate in 
their wild fashion their return from the hunt and 
from war. I ’d not fear to take my oath that 
some of their furs have gone for brandy, e’en 
under the very noses of the Jesuits. I come to 
bring thee good tidings. Our passage is engaged 
on the Salamander, and in two days or so we sail 
for Boston, wind and weather favoring.” 

“ ’T is too good to be true ! ” cried Prudence. 

Cartier, who in his seafaring life had seen but 
little of Indian ways, was curious to, as he said, 
“ look at their carryings on,” and the girls ven- 
tured, under his protection, towards the square, 
to gaze shudderingly from afar upon the Indian 
orgies so familiar and terrible to them. 

The Abenaquis had indeed, in spite of the 
efforts of the Jesuits to suppress this traffic, suc- 
ceeded in getting some of the always coveted 
“ Christian fire-water” from an unscrupulous 
trader, who had thus driven a sharper bargain 
with them. As usual, the brandy had crazed 
them. With wildest whoops and yells, they 
circled around the centre of the square, weapons 
in hand, bent half over, stamping the ground in 


ANOTHER SURPRISE. 


287 


a fierce war-dance, chanting the war-song, and 
flaunting high the bloody scalps of the recently 
slain Mohawks. 

Around the circle where they danced and 
howled, had crowded a throng of curious lookers 
on. The crowd presented a varied and pictur- 
esque aspect. Here stood some of the soldiers of 
Carignan in slouched hats and plumes, bandoleers 
swinging from shoulders, firelocks in hand, vowing 
that they had seen no sight to equal this, not e’en 
in the Turkish wars. Some of the merchants from 
the Lower Town, and liabitans in coarse plain 
dress, whom the arrival of the French vessel had 
brought in from the scattered seigniories along 
the St. Lawrence, had come up to learn the cause 
of the uproar. More gorgeous than usual, even, 
in contrast with their plainness, looked several of 
the young French nobles, bearing themselves 
haughtily, in the brilliant costume of Louis the 
Fourteenth’s court, bright with silks, ribbons, and 
laces, their proud faces looking out from the great 
curled wigs that fell on their shoulders with a 
condescending interest in these savage diversions. 

Several Jesuit priests in their black robes and 
hats, crucifix and rosary hanging at their sides, had 
hastened out into the square when the din pene- 
trated their great stone building, to strive, if 
possible, to quell the tumult by exerting their au- 
thority and influence upon their savage pupils, over 


288 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


whose souls their hearts yearned with unfeigned 
love. With them were boys from Laval’s Semi- 
nary close by, wearing the garb required of all 
seminarists, Indian or French. Nor were there 
wanting coureurs des hois , as the French bush- 
rangers were called, with their bronzed faces, half- 
Indian dress, and devil-may-care air, looking on 
'with coarse jest and loud laugh. A few women, 
like Prudence and Submit, stood gazing on the 
turbulent scene from afar with unaffected horror. 

As the Indians re-enacted the scenes of their 
triumphs, their thirst for blood was kindled, and 
they demanded real tortures, instead of those 
pretended ones, when their tomahawks and knives 
stabbed the empty air, and their still blood-stained 
hands seemed to tear off invisible scalps. 

“ Let us caress our prisoner ! ” cried one, running 
toward a young Indian, as he seemed, whom the 
girls had not noticed in the throng. The prisoner 
was dragged out into the circle. His naked arms 
were bound so tightly behind him that the rope 
sawed into his flesh. His form was wasted and 
thin. His face, daubed with streaks of war-paint, 
wore a look of resigned despair, as he offered no 
resistance to the Indians who began to torment 
him. One began to bite and tear at his finger- 
nails. Another burned his finger ends in his 
calumet or pipe. Others prepared a bonfire, by 
whose blaze, eagerly leaping and waving in the 


ANOTHER SURPRISE. 289 

keen autumn air, they proposed to burn their 
prisoner, after tormenting him sufficiently. 

“ Ob, dear daddy, let us go away ! I cannot 
bear it ! cried Francesca, pulling at her father’s 
hand, while Prudence was crying blinding tears. 

Hark ! what was the cry that came from the 
spectators, in excited tones, growing louder ? 

“ C’est un Anglais ! C’est un pauvre Anglais ! ” 

“ Oh, daddy, they say he is English ! Canst 
not thou rescue him ? ” cried Francesca. 

“ Poor, poor boy ! ” cried Prudence. 

Cartier rushed forward. 

“ The devils will not burn an English boy alive 
under my eyes, though I fight the red crew single- 
handed ! ” cried Cartier, dashing through the crowd. 

The excitement was intense in the throng, and 
the pity for the unhappy prisoner great. He must 
not be burned, yet how help it? Great caution 
was necessary. The Indians were easily offended, 
they brooked no tampering with what they con- 
sidered their rights. The Abenaquis were too 
valuable allies of the French for them to run the 
least risk of giving the Indians offence. The 
French soldiers, therefore, who would gladly have 
rushed to the rescue, were held back. Cartier 
had seized a big Abenaquis chief by the shoulders, 
when he was in his turn seized from behind and 
obliged to relinquish his hold by a French soldier, 
who cried, — 


19 


290 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Voila, le bon pere ! ” 

All were relieved, for they knew that in the 
Jesuits lay the only hope of saving the prisoner. 
Cartier saw that a priest — a tall, powerfully built 
man, before whose air of authority the Indians 
instinctively gave way — strode fearlessly into the 
frenzied circle, and bade the Indians desist. He 
induced the more sober among them to confide 
their prisoner to the custody of the Jesuits for 
safe keeping, and urged them to withdraw their 
drunken comrades, now fiercely howling with dis- 
appointed rage, from the Upper Town, down to 
the outskirts of the Lower Town on the banks of 
the St. Charles. The good father then hastened 
to take the captive as speedily as might be within 
the safe shelter of his convent’s walls. 

Suddenly a cry arose, the voice of a young girl. 
It was Prudence, crying, — 

“ Oh, John ! ’T is my brother ! my brother John 
Ellis ! ” 

As the English boy in charge of the Jesuit 
passed near the girls, in spite of his Indian dress, 
the darkness of his skin bronzed by the sun, 
crusted with dirt, his wasted face still daubed 
with war-paints, Prudence had suddenly recog- 
nized in the wretched captive her dearly loved 
brother. 

John, dulled by semi-starvation and exhaustion, 
by mental suffering and total despair, at first 


ANOTHER SURPRISE. 


291 


hardly noticed this cry. Then the crowd sepa- 
rated. A little girl ran through. She threw her 
arms about him, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“ John, dear John, dost not know me ? ’T is I, 
thy little sister Prudence ! ” 

“Pruda! Is ’t thou?” cried John, unable to 
believe his eyes. “ Is ’t verily thou ? How earnest 
thou here, so far from Hadley, Pruda ? ” 

“ Oh, but, John, how earnest thou here ? ” cried 
Prudence, in her turn. “ Were our father and 
mother captivated too ? Are they among the 
savages ? Or are they — ” 

Prudence stopped. She could not speak the 
cruel word “ slain.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


THE ESCAPE. 

“ T^VELAY us not, my child. It may cost thy 

I 3 brother’s life,” said the Jesuit, pushing 
rapidly on with John into the protection of the 
convent’s walls. 

Prudence was left to a whirl of conflicting feel- 
ings, Francesca and her father deeply sympathizing 
with her. 

“ Thou wilt rescue John, wilt thou not, daddy ? ” 
begged Francesca, confident that her idolized 
father was capable of any daring deed. 

“ I ’ll do all one man can, lass, thou mayst 
depend on ’t,” said the sailor. “ E’en ere I knew 
him to be thy brother, Prudence, my soul burned 
within me to see an English lad at the mercy 
of those red devils.” 

When safe within the convent, the Jesuit un- 
bound John, bathed him, dressed his wounds, gave 
him such poor clothing as he could, and shut him 
into one of the cells for the rest and sleep the boy 
so greatly needed. 

The cot was narrow and hard, but John slept 
long and heavily. When he awoke, at first he 


THE ESCAPE. 


293 


could not think where he was. Then all came 
back — his sufferings, his narrow escape, the un- 
expected meeting with Pruda. 

“ Or did 1 dream it ? ” he questioned, as he lay 
looking up at the little grated window high above 
in the stone wall, through which a ray of sunlight 
shone down upon his cot. “ Nay, ’t was surely 
so. Poor little maid ! I rejoice, whatever else 
hath befallen her, that she hath escaped the 
clutches of the cruel savages. One thing I know. 
I can ne’er say aught against Papists again. Had 
not the brave priest come to my rescue, my 
troubles would have been all ended ere this.” 

A priest now entered the cell, bringing food. 
John tried to express his gratitude by signs. 

u I would gladly have asked him if there be any 
hope of my release, and about my sister, how 
she came here,” thought John ; “but I know not 
the heathenish lingo of the French, nor do they 
understand my speech. I must try to be patient 
and ‘ endure hardness.’ Perchance God is making 
way for my release at last.” 

Though thankful for the rest and quiet respite, 
his anxiety made the day seem endless, it wore 
slowly on till the waning light showed that it 
was afternoon. The tiny gleam of sunlight trav- 
elled up the ceiling and disappeared. At length 
John heard footsteps ringing along the corridor’s 
stone floor ; steps made, not by the priests’ san- 


294 THE YOUNG PUK1TANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

dalled feet, which moved noiselessly, but by the 
heavy boots of some other man. John listened 
with beating heart, not knowing what a moment 
might bring forth. The steps stopped at the 
door of John’s cell. The door was unlocked. A 
stranger entered, a man roughly dressed as a 
sailor, but whose weather-beaten face beamed with 
kindness and good-will. 

“ Thou knowest me not, John Ellis,” said the 
stranger. “ I am the father of thy little friend 
Francesca.” 

“ Francesca!” exclaimed John, thinking the 
stranger daft. 

“ ’T is as Submit Carter, perchance, thou wilt 
better know her,” said Cartier. 

He then, as briefly as possible, for time pressed, 
gave John an outline of the girls’ story, and of 
the reunion of himself and child. 

“ To-morrow we and thy sister sail for Boston,” 
said Cartier. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed John, starting up excitedly, 
with a wild look of longing. “ Oh, can I — ” 

“ Listen,” said Cartier. “ I have worked all 
day, as have these good Jesuit fathers, to secure 
thy release, that thou mayst go with us.” 

John listened with painful eagerness. 

“ But naught can be done.” 

John sank back in utter despair. 

“ Not e’en Frontenac himself, or the Jesuit 


THE ESCAPE. 


295 


priests, can persuade these bloody Indians to part 
with thee. Force is not to be thought of, as 
Frontenac wisheth above all to hold the good will 
of his savage allies. They are wroth at yester- 
day’s interference, and sullen after their drinking- 
bout, and they stoutly maintain that thou art 
their lawful prisoner, taken in war from their 
enemies and the enemies of the French, the dread 
Iroquois, and nothing will induce them to give 
thee up.” 

John listened in dull despair. What mattered 
anything now ? He must back to these loathsome 
savages, probably to die a death of torture. 

“ Yet despair not,” said Cartier, earnestly. 
“There is one desperate chance yet, and we must 
take it, at all hazards. ’T is this. The Jesuits 
are forced to deliver thee up to the Abenaquis 
to-night.” 

John groaned. 

“ The good fathers cannot help themselves. 
The Indians are in such a rage the Jesuits dare 
not hold thee, lest hereafter the savages trust 
them no more, and they lose all influence over 
them. The Abenaquis will encamp to-night about 
three miles up the river, at Sillery, where it seems 
the Jesuits hope to induce some of the tribe to 
settle and become civilized. A doubtful under- 
taking, methinks ! The Jesuits will, on various 
pretexts, keep thee as near nightfall as they can. 


2!i6 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


They will then yield thee into the hands of one 
Atondo; an Abenaquis chief, whom they have con- 
verted and baptized under the name of ‘ Stephen.’ ” 

“ I remember Atondo,” said John. “ He carried 
himself somewhat more friendly toward me than 
the other savages.” 

“ Yea, the Jesuits say Atondo is superior to his 
fellows, and he loveth the Jesuits and is anxious 
to pleasure them,” said Cartier. “ They think 
that Atondo, though he will not commit himself 
in words, will so arrange that thou canst escape 
in the night. We shall go on board the Sala- 
mander to-night, as she sails early in the morn. 
Captain Babson of the Salamander is with me 
heart and soul in this matter, ready to do all in his 
power for thy rescue. He and I will take one of 
the ship’s boats, slip cautiously up the river in the 
darkness, and lie by close to shore a little below 
Sillery. An thou hast the good luck to get off 
undiscovered, make for the river bank, and give 
us some signal that will not alarm the savages. 
What shall it be ? ” 

“I will hoot like an owl,” said John, who had 
not lived among the Indians so long for nothing, 
at the same time giving a low “ hoot ” that 
Cartier might be sure to recognize the sound. “ I 
will hoot thrice.” 

“ Well done, lad,” said Cartier, laughing at the 
skilful imitation. “ One would take thee for the 


THE ESCAPE. 


297 


wisest old owl that e’er roosted on an oak limb. 
Now I must go, for the day waneth, and there is 
much to do. Thou art a lad of spirit. Keep up 
good heart. I’ll wager twenty crowns that we 
bring thee home safe yet, in spite of the savages.” 

When dark shadows settled in the corners of 
his cell, one of the priests came and motioned 
John to follow him to the outer door, where in 
the twilight waited several of the Abenaquis, 
among whom John recognized the tall form of 
Atondo, Atondo his only hope. He scanned 
Atondo’s face for signs of compassion. But the 
Indian wore a grim, forbidding look. Seizing 
John roughly, with an angry exclamation, he 
bound his hands again behind his back. The 
other Indians gave grunts of approval, listening 
sullenly to the talk of the priest, who seemed to 
be urging mercy towards the prisoner. 

It was dark night ere the Indians reached the 
spot where the camp-fires were burning. The 
Indians already in camp received back their cap- 
tive with derisive cries, and significant flourishes of 
their tomahawks around his head that foreboded 
worse things to come. 

John’s hands were unbound, and he was made 
to lie down on the ground near one of the fires, 
where his outstretched legs and arms were tied to 
four stakes driven securely in the earth. Atondo 
bound his hands to the stakes, while another 


298 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Indian secured his feet. In spite of Atondo’s 
dark face and threatening gestures, John could 
not help fancying that the Indian was not bind- 
ing his hands so securely as might be. 

“ Perchance ’t is but my fancy. My hopes may 
deceive me,” thought John, tryingtohide from the 
Indians under a feigned passiveness the excite- 
ment surging in every vein at thought of what 
this night might bring. 

Atondo, placing his gun under his head, lay 
down beside John. The Indians, worn out and 
stupefied as most of them were after two days’ 
debauch, fell asleep almost as soon as they 
stretched themselves around the fires. 

John lay motionless, as indeed he was forced to 
do, listening with strained ears to their deep 
breathing, looking up through the dark to the 
stars twinkling far above. Though all seemed so 
quiet, it was long ere he dared stir. At length he 
ventured gently to wriggle his right hand. Oh, 
joy, it was as he had thought. Atondo had not 
fastened his hand securely. With slight effort he 
wriggled it free, and was easily able with it to 
undo his left hand. He lay a moment, listening 
intently, with fast-beating heart. There was no 
sound, but the heavy breathing of the Indians, 
the night wind rustling the autumn leaves, the 
distant yelp of some wild beast. 

Cautiously, oh, so cautiously, John at last ven- 


THE ESCAPE. 


299 


tured to raise himself to a sitting posture. His feet 
were fastened tightly, and it took some time, 
which seemed hours to his impatience, ere, by the 
dull red light of the coals to which the camp-fire 
had waned, he managed to untie them. 

A moment’s strained listening. Then up and 
away slipped John as lightly as on wings, careful 
not to snap a twig, dislodge a pebble, or rustle a 
leaf that might warn the Indians’ quick ears of 
his flight. 

He made toward the river. The eastern sky 
was now brightened by the light of the rising 
moon, below the horizon, but fast coming up. 
Soon John saw the great river lying gray and 
vast between its two black shores, dimly seen. 
He slipped down the bank of a cove to the water’s 
edge. No sign of a boat was to be seen. John’s 
heart sank, but he cautiously gave his owl-hoot. 
It seemed, to his fancy, to ring out far and near, 
through the stillness of the night. 

He hears a splash. Is it a leaping fish, or a 
deer wading into the stream to drink ? Nay, ’t is 
the splash of oars ! From out the dark shadow of 
the shore another dark shadow detaches itself. 
It draws near. John can see the boat now, within 
which sit two dark forms. It touches the strand. 
He steps in and sits down. 

Not a word was spoken. With quick and quiet 
rise and fall of oars, wielded in the skilled hands 


300 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


of old sailors, the boat, aided by the current, 
glided swiftly down the river, till, as the moon 
swung up into full radiaace lighting the broad 
stream, the frowning cliff above, the dark, silent 
houses below, the boat moored beside the Sala- 
mander lying well out in the river. 

Captain Babson hurriedly climbed the rope lad- 
der hanging from the ship’s side, half pulling John 
after him. When at last they stood on the deck, 
the good captain, slapping John on the shoulder 
with hearty good-will, said, — 

“ Welcome, my hearty, to the good old Sala- 
mander. You are safe enough now. Your foot, 
I may say, is on English soil. All the Indians in 
Canada could not get hold of thee now, lad. But, 
to save trouble, ’t is best I put thee in hiding till 
we ’re off. I meant to get off by daybreak, but 
one of these frog-eating moseers must needs delay 
me by his pottering.” 

John was hid in the hold, behind bales of fur 
which Captain Babson had taken in exchange, for 
certain English wares he had brought up. Luck- 
ily the French merchant, having learned Captain 
Babson’s haste to start, though little surmising 
the reason, brought his goods aboard with the 
earliest daylight. John heard the welcome clink 
of the anchor chain, the cries of the crew as the 
sails rattled up, “ Yo-heave-yo, yo-heave-yo, ” the 
running to and fro of feet on the deck, and at 


THE ESCAPE. 


301 


last a rushing sound of water against the ship’s 
sides. 

They were off, and he ‘was safe and free ! Then 
he heard Cartier’s voice calling, — 

“ Come forth, John, and take thy last look on 
Quebec. T is little thou ’It pine to see it again, 
I trow.” 

“ Ne’er saidst thou truer words,” said John, 
with sparkling eyes and joyful smile. 

The girls joined him on deck, also to take a last 
look at Quebec, lying high in the radiance of the 
rising sun above the broad, gleaming St. Lawrence. 

Each was happy. Francesca, painful as it had 
been to part with the kind nuns, had exchanged 
with them promises of enduring love, to be nour- 
ished by an exchange of letters whenever occasion 
offered. She bore away, as her chief treasures, 
her rosary and Catholic prayer-book, and had 
promised the nuns to still practise her devotions. 
With her dear father, the future looked bright to 
her, and her face was as happy as Prudence’s, as 
she, clinging to John’s hand, cried, — 

“ Oh, John, I must hold thy hand, to be sure 
’t is verily thou, and that we are really going 
home at last ! ” 

“’Tis long since my hand hath touched any- 
thing so gentle and pleasing as thine, Pruda,” said 
John, lovingly. 

But, hark ! What sound is that, borne on the 


302 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

wind from up stream ? The Indian war-whoop ! 
John was no coward, but he turned pale at this 
hated sound. 

“ Have no fears, m3" lad,” cried Captain Babson, 
his eyes sparkling. “With this spanking breeze 
bellying out our sails, and the current with us, 
the Indians would need all the help of their father 
the devil to o’ertake the good Salamander, — as 
fast a sailer as goes out of Boston port, if I do 
say it.” 

Around the curve of the river above appeared a 
flotilla of Indian canoes, propelled as fast down 
stream as strong arms moved by rage could pad- 
dle. The Abenaquis had missed John, and had 
started to seek for him. 

The canoes came near enough to enable John to 
see that Atondo led the race, and so near that 
the Indians’ restless eyes, wandering everywhere 
and able to see incredible distances, suddenty per- 
ceived their late captive standing on the deck of 
the English vessel which was going so hopelessly 
fast down stream. Loud, fierce yells of rage 
rending the sweet morning air announced their 
discovery. 

“ Howl away, my painted beauties,” said Cap~ 
tain Babson, looking back with a delighted grin 
at the disappointed Indians. “Ye’ll howl till ye 
burst ere ye o’ertake the Salamander with her 
back to such a breeze as this.” 







THE ESCAPE. 


303 


The Indians stood up, and sent arrows and 
ringing shots flying after the vessel, in vain. She 
was beyond their reach. Cartier took up a gun 
and returned the Indians’ shot without hitting 
them. 

“ ’Tis useless, and I knew it,” he said. “I 
can’t hit the rascals, more ’s the pity. Yet I 
would not be so ill mannered as not to return 
their compliments.” 

On glided the ship until she rounded the Isle of 
Orleans, hiding from the watching eyes of the one 
time young captives the last glimpse of Quebec, 
beautiful in situation, where they had received 
much kindness, yet so terrible in association to 
them. Might they never, never see Quebec 
again ! 


CHAPTER XXII. 


HOME AT LAST. 

T HE Salamander was nearly two weeks mak- 
ing the trip down the St. Lawrence, out 
through the Gulf, and then, coasting alongshore, 
to Boston. The coast was as yet comparatively 
little known, and Captain Babson was obliged 
to feel his way cautiously, running inshore and 
anchoring for the night ere darkness fell. Some- 
times too the Salamander encountered head winds ; 
sometimes she was becalmed. 

The trip was not without serious possible dan- 
gers, not merely from storms, but also from both 
Dutch privateers and West India buccaneers. 

But although the young folk saw how anxiously 
Captain Babson and Cartier scanned the few sails 
occasionally seen in the offing, they knew nothing 
of this danger, which the sailors were careful not 
to mention. The days on shipboard, though 
not without some privations in the Salamander’s 
cramped quarters, were yet most happy days, — 
days full of rest, of a sense of quiet safety, of joy- 
ous anticipation. 


HOME AT LAST. 


305 


In pleasant weather, sitting on deck, while the 
salt breeze blew about them, freshening the pale 
cheeks and sharpening appetites until Captain 
Babson’s salt pork seemed a delicious delicacy, 
John and Prudence talked of home, of the joy of 
again seeing father, mother, Abigail, Nathan, if 
happily, in these cruel times of war, their dear 
ones had been spared. They spoke little of their 
sufferings in captivity; those memories were too 
dark, too painful, to be dwelt upon. 

Francesca and her father also built happy air- 
castles as the sun shone warmly down on their 
nook on deck, and sparkled on the dancing waves 
through which the Salamander ploughed. One 
day Cartier surprised Francesca by saying, — 

“ Thou hast an aunt living in London, Fran- 
cesca, that mayhap thou hast ne’er heard tell of.” 

“ An aunt ? ” exclaimed Francesca. 

“ Yea, my sister Charity, as good a woman and 
as godly as e’er trod sole leather. Doubtless her 
prayers for her scapegrace brother have wrought 
mightily in my behalf. Her husband is dead. 
She- hath no living children, and I ’ll wager ’twill 
not take much argument to persuade her to come 
to Boston and cast in her lot with us. I know she 
hath ever been much drawn to New England as 
the home of those like-minded in religion with 
herself.” 

“ Aunt Charity ! How pleasing it soundeth ! ” 
20 


306 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

said Francesca. “ To think I should have a real 
aunt of my own ! ” 

“ When I go up to Hadley with thee — ” 

Oh, daddy, 1 thought not we should go to 
Hadley ! ” cried Francesca. 

“ Why, lass, thou seest matters stand thus,” 
said her father. Fie then broke to Francesca the 
disagreeable fact, which had not occurred to her, 
that she was still by the laws of the Colony legally 
bound to the Widow Burnham until she was one- 
and-twenty. 

“ So I must take thee to Hadley, and secure thy 
release in due form. The Puritans all hold so 
strictly to their laws, I know not, forsooth, how I 
shall set about it.” 

Francesca burst into violent sobs and tears. 

“Oh, daddy, I cannot bear it! ” she cried. “I 
thought we were so safe and happy now ! An the 
Hadley townsmen take me away from thee and 
make me go back to the Widow Burnham, I ’ll — ” 

“ Hush, hush, lassie,” said her father, soothing 
her excitement. “ Dost think for a moment, 
child, thy daddy would give thee up to that she- 
dragon in petticoats ? Nay, nay. I ’d kidnap 
thee first, and we ’d e’en make off to New France 
again, and take up with the Governor’s offers. 
There ’ll be no trouble. The Hadley townsmen 
have bowels of compassion, like other folk, I trow. 
I ’ll to Hadley with thee. And we must see thy 


HOME AT LAST. 307 

friends here safe under their father’s roof. Trust 
in thy daddy, lass, and do not worry.” 

At last the little Salamander wound her way in 
among the beautiful islands of Boston harbor to 
her own wharf, and at last the young Puritan 
captives stood again on the dear soil of Massachu- 
setts Bay Colony. By advice of Captain Babson, 
Cartier and the young folks put up at the ordinary 
over whose door swung the sign of the “ Blue 
Anchor,” kept by the genial George Monk. 

When Goodman Monk learned the sad story of 
the captives, all the comforts of his inn were 
placed at their command without charge. 

“ Nay, nay,” said the good man heartily, when 
Cartier offered to pay him. “ An I took pay for 
cheering up a bit these poor, returned captive 
children, I trow I were as cold-blooded as the 
savages themselves.” 

The story of the returned captives attracted 
much sympathy in Boston, and collections were 
taken up in the churches to provide them with 
suitable clothes and aid them to reach home. 

Cartier and John were eager for news of the 
war. To their joy they learned that King Philip 
had been killed on the twelfth of August ; that his 
forces were broken, slain, or scattered, and that 
the war was considered practically over, save on 
the coast of Maine, whence every vessel brought 
news of some savage onslaught. 


308 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ The bloody battle of Turner’s Falls, in spite 
of the rally made by the Indians afterward, was 
yet the turning-point of the war. The Indians 
never recovered from that blow. So thou seest, 
my brave lad,” said Monk, turning to John, “that 
thou and thy valiant comrades did not risk their 
lives for naught. The savages in that region 
have been sore distressed and scattered ever since, 
though they rallied last June, when a large body 
of them made a desperate assault on Hadley.” 

“ On Hadley ? ” cried the young folk, cheeks 
paling in dread of they knew not what horrors 
might await their ears. 

“ Yea, even so. But be of good cheer. As 
God in His mercy had doubtless ordered it, but 
four days before, on June 8th, Major Talcott, of 
Connecticut, had marched into Hadley with two 
hundred and fifty English soldiers and two 
hundred Mohegans, — as brave a spectacle as 
Hadley street e’er saw. Two days later they were 
joined by Captain George Dennison, of Hartford, 
with his company. So the savages were met by 
what they little looked for, — a force of over five 
hundred soldiers, joined to the Hadley fighters. 
With the aid of the town’s great gun, they were 
repulsed and driven off, with no loss to the 
English in slain or captives.” 

“ Thank God ! ” exclaimed the relieved children. 

“ As the war is now deemed over,” added 


HOME AT LAST. 


309 


Monk, “ ’t will be safe for thee to venture out on 
the Bay Path toward Hadley, though not without 
an escort of soldiers, as there are still small bands 
of Indians wandering here and there in the woods. 
Until you find such escort, make yourselves at 
home under the roof of the old Blue Anchor. I ’m 
of a mind with the jovial rhymester who sang, — 

“ To my best my friends are free, 

Free with that and free with me, 

Free to pass the timely joke, 

And the tube sedately smoke ; 

Free to act, as free to think, — 

No informers with me drink, — 

Free to stay a night or so, 

And when uneasy, free to go.” 

“ Jack Cartier saith amen to that hymn, and 
hearty thanks to thee, friend Monk,” said Cartier. 

“ While ye tarry,” continued hospitable Good- 
man Monk, u our goodly town of Boston offereth 
sundry diversions besides the Thursday lectures. 
To-morrow two Indians are to be executed, and I 
will gladly take thee and the young folk here to 
the spectacle.” 

The girls shudderingly declined this diversion ; 
but John and Cartier participated, as indeed did 
most of the people of Boston, including many 
dignitaries of high position. 

All the Colony shuddered at the name of an 
Indian. A guard was set at the entrance to 


310 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

Boston, on the narrow Neck, the only approach by 
land, with strictest orders that no Indian be 
suffered to enter town on any pretext without 
a guard and two musketeers. No Indian was 
suffered to lodge in town. Indians found even 
in the vicinity were arrested. The town of 
praying Indians at Natick, the disciples of John 
Elliot, to his great sorrow, was broken up, and 
the Indians dragged from their homes and carried 
to Deer Island, forced to live there during the 
winter in virtual imprisonment, suffering great 
privation and hardship. 

Worst of all, many Indian captives, including 
Philip’s son and other relations, were sold into the 
horrors of slavery in the West Indies, soon to pine 
and die under their terrible hardships, combined 
with the tropical climate. John Elliot wrote 
to the Council, indignantly remonstrating against 
this cruelty, reminding the Council that they 
were “ acting contrary to the mind of Christ,” and 
that u to sell souls ” was u a dangerous traffic.” 

But John Elliot was in advance of his time. 
His solitary protest was powerless to stem the 
bitter tide of feeling against the Indian. 

The girls rejoiced to hear that in the previous 
May Mrs. Rowlandson had been redeemed from 
captivity. Mr. John Hoar, a leading man in 
Concord, despatched by Governor Leverett as a 
messenger to Philip, had ridden out with an 


HOME AT LAST. 


311 


escort through the wilderness to the wild vicinity 
of Mt. Wachuset. Here in the savage, hilly 
region, the heart of the wilderness, under the 
shadow of Mt. Wachuset, Hoar stood by a huge 
boulder whither Philip had promised to send 
his captive. The Indians met Mr. Hoar at the 
boulder, received from him the ransom of twenty 
pounds demanded by Philip for Mrs. Rowlandson, 
and yielded up their forlorn captive, who rode 
away through the woods behind Mr. Hoar to 
Boston. Once more she heard English voices, saw 
English faces, and felt that God had answered her 
constant prayers. The Old South Church had 
hired a house in Boston for the Rowlandsons’ use, 
Lancaster being still a desolate ruin. 

Late in October Cartier learned that a company 
of soldiers was going up to Quabaug, at which 
deserted settlement a garrison had been kept 
during the war. Hastening to avail himself of 
this escort, he bought a horse for the use of the 
girls, while he and John walked with the foot 
soldiers, both armed, and ready to do their part 
if attacked. 

Again Prudence found herself traversing the 
Bay Path. The journey was full of watchful 
anxiety and terrors, which, however, the young 
Ellises were helped to bear by the joyful thought 
filling their minds each night, as they lay down on 
their beds of spruce boughs around the camp-fire, 
under the sky, — 


312 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ To-night we are another day’s journey nearer 
home ! ” 

Oh, if only they found their loved ones alive, 
what inconceivable joy would be this home-coming 
from captivity ! 

One cold day the last of October, when gloom- 
ily lowering clouds and the sharp, bitter wind 
whirling down the last sear leaves from the trees’ 
scantily clad boughs more than hinted the speedy 
coming of winter, Goodwife Ellis had lit her 
candlewood splint early, and was getting supper 
earlier than usual too, in an effort to shut out the 
cheerlessness of the outer world, so doubly depress- 
ing to sad hearts. 

Goodman Ellis piled yet more logs on the blaz- 
ing fire in the broad fireplace, over which hung 
from the iron crane a big pot of hasty pudding, 
boiling and bubbling, which Nathan and Abigail 
were eagerly watching, for the cold had sharp- 
ened their appetites. Watch lay spread out on 
the hearth, basking luxuriously in the firelight, 
“ right under foot,” as Goodwife Ellis said, but 
gently, for John’s faithful dog friend knew no 
harsh words. 

“ ’T is a cold night,” said Goodman Ellis. 
“ Winter is tightening down on us again, it 
seemeth almost ere we have had a breathing spell. 
The time of our shutting in here in Hadley from 
the outside world draweth on apace.” 


HOME AT LAST. 


313 * 


“ Our poor lost children ! ” said Goodvvife Ellis 
uttering the underlying thought ever in her heart. 
“Who knoweth where they abide?” Then, has- 
tily wiping away a trickling tear with her apron 
corner, she added sorrowfully : “ Though doubt- 
less now they have ceased to suffer. The good 
Lord in His mercy hath released them from suf- 
fering ere this. We must have heard somewhat 
of them in all these weary months were they still 
among the living.” 

“I sorely fear ’t is as thou sayest, good wife,” 
said Goodman Ellis, his voice breaking. “ We 
shall go to them, but they will not return to us.” 

Sadly they stood looking into the cheerfully 
blazing fire, seeing it not, seeing in its dancing 
flames only dear, vanished faces, as the wind 
howled mournfully down the great chimney and 
around the house, roughly shaking doors and 
windows. 

Suddenly Watch leaped up with a sharp bark, 
running to the outer door, and Nathan cried 
fearfully, — 

“ Father, methinks I hear somewhat above the 
wind’s roaring, like footsteps without ! ” 

Both Goodman Ellis and wife looked startled, 
Goodman Ellis instinctively raising his hand to- 
wards the loaded musket on the deer’s horns over 
the mantle, while little Abigail fled to the shelter 
of her mother’s side. The haunting, ever-present 


314 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

dread of Indians still overhung every household in 
New England. No moment was so quiet, so seem- 
ingly secure, that the subtle foe might not burst 
in without an instant’s warning. 

There is no knock. The door-latch rises, the 
door swings open. What is this that greets the 
staring, unbelieving eyes of Goodman Ellis and 
wife ? A vision of their lost children ? A mock- 
ing delusion of Satan sent to try more cruelly 
their bleeding hearts ? 

“ Nay, nay, ’t is they, ’t is our children, Reuben, 
our dear children in flesh and blood ! ” cried Good- 
wife Ellis, as Prudence with a cry of joy rushed 
into her mother’s arms, while Goodman Ellis 
clutched both John’s hands, gazing into the manly 
face of his boy, that quivered with irrepressible 
emotion, hardly able yet to believe that he really 
saw his eldest born again, alive and well. 

But had any one doubted the reality of John’s 
appearance, Watch would have reassured them. 
With loudest barks and yelps of joy he flew at 
John, leaping up on him, trying to lick his face, 
flying off to caper around the room like a crazy 
dog, and back again to nearly knock John over 
with his ardent caresses. 

“ Down, old boy, down ! ” said John, at last 
able to speak. “Wouldst eat me up alive for 

j°y ? ” 

Whereat Watch only capered the more, and 


HOME AT LAST. 


315 


Goodwife Ellis cried, tears of joy streaming down 
her cheeks, — 

“ Oh, my son, that I should live to hear thy 
loved voice again ! Oh the mercies of God to 
my doubting heart ! ” 

Nathan and Abigail had stood wide-eyed, bewil- 
dered, shy even of this brother and sister so long 
unseen. Both had changed. Pruda had grown 
much taller and thinner ; and John, bronzed and 
thin, taller, matured by all he had endured, seemed 
a man now, rather than the boyish brother with 
whom Nathan used to frolic. 

But the eager love glowing in Prudence’s face 
as she caught and kissed little Abigail, made the 
child realize that this was indeed her own dear 
sister come back, and she whispered, as she cud- 
dled her head down in Prudence’s neck, — 

“ I cared tenderly for thy Susanna whilst thou 
wast gone, Pruda.” 

John snatched up Nathan, and lifting him on 
high till the little boy’s round, clipped head hit 
the big beam overhead, cried, — 

“ What great boy is this, pray ? ” 

“ How black thou art, John ! ” said Nathan, shyly. 

Every one laughed at this, and the laugh re- 
lieved the strain of feeling which seemed almost 
too great to bear. Now Goodwife Ellis saw that 
others had come in. 

“ Submit!” she cried, joyfully welcoming the 


316 THE YOUNG PUKITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

bound girl. “ Is ’t thou ? Hast thou too escaped 
alive from the cruel savages ? It rejoiceth my 
heart to see thee. Oft have I remembered thee 
too in my prayers.” 

Then she noticed a strange man, who wiped 
tears from his eyes as he looked on the joyous yet 
touching scene of reunion. 

When Goodman Ellis and wife knew that this 
was Submit’s father, and that chiefly to him was 
due the return of their children, they could not 
express their gratitude too warmly, or plan to do 
enough for him and his child. But one relief was 
possible for hearts so overfull of joy and gratitude. 

“ The Lord hath been graciously pleased to hear 
our cry. He hath broken the bonds of our chil- 
dren, and led them out of captivity,” said Good- 
man Ellis. “ Let us return thanks to Him for His 
unmerited mercies.” 

As the good man stood, his uplifted face trans- 
figured by deep feeling, his voice, trembling with 
emotion, rising in devout praise and thanksgiving 
to the loving Father in Heaven, his words found 
warm echo in the grateful hearts of all present. 

The Ellises urged that Francesca and her father 
remain with them. But Cartier felt it better to 
leave the reunited family alone, and also that per- 
haps policy dictated an acceptance of the Widow 
Burnham’s pressing invitation to abide with her. 

The news of the captives’ return spread rapidly 


HOME AT LAST. 


317 


up and down Hadley street, and great was the 
rejoicing. One of the first persons to welcome the 
children was Granny Allison, who came hobbling 
down, looking aged and feeble, for the care of sick 
and wounded men during the war, and the terrible 
shocks attending the Indian assaults, had told more 
on her than on younger people. There was a 
tumult of joyful talk, of congratulation and wel- 
come at the Ellises, such as Hadley had not known 
during all the dark days of war. 

John’s first inquiries were for his comrades in 
arms. He heard with sorrow the deaths of Cap- 
tain Turner, Sergeant Dickinson, and others well 
known to him ; also that his friend, Jonathan 
Wells, still languished in critical condition, and 
that the town was about sending him in an ox- 
cart down to Mr. Jonathan Gilbert’s in Hartford, 
where he could receive skilled medical treatment, 
Dr. Locke having left Hadley. He heard, too, 
that the gallant Captain Holyoke, of Springfield, 
had recently died in consequence of his hardships 
during and after the battle of Turner’s Falls. 
John was able to give details of the last hours 
of some of the soldiers whom it had been his 
own sad fate to see- tortured, — tidings hardly 
surprising their friends, for an expedition sent up 
in June to the scene of the battle had not only 
found and buried the remains of Captain Turner, 
but had discovered charred stakes in the woods, 


318 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 


telling but too plainly the cruel fate of some 
among the English. 

One day soon after John’s return, Sam Smith 
with bated breath, after looking cautiously about 
lest some one overhear, said to him, — 

“ John, strange things have come to light in 
Hadley in thy absence. Thou rememberest the 
Angel of Hadley, and how timely he came to our 

o >> 

rescue t 

“ Yea, verily I do. What of him ? ” asked 
John, eagerly. 

“ One day into our settlement came riding two 
special messengers from Boston, with orders to 
search every house in Hadley, — for whom, think 
you ? For General William Goffe, the Regicide ! ” 
said Sam. 

“ Goffe ! ” exclaimed John, his mind quickly 
running over his glimpses of the mysterious, ven- 
erable man who was evidently hiding in Hadley. 
Was it possible he had seen General Goffe of the 
Parliamentary Army, one of the Judges who had 
condemned King Charles the First to execution 
and signed his death-warrant ? 

“\Sh! not so loud,” said Sam. “ Thine own 
sense will tell thee this is no tidings to be pro- 
claimed on the house-tops. ’T is thought some 
marplot royalist, shrewdly mistrusting who the 
valiant Angel of Hadley might be (as General 
Goffe and his father-in-law, Whalley, were well 


HOME AT LAST. 


319 


known to be in hiding somewhere in New Eng- 
land), informed the king, who sent a royal 
warrant causing Hadley to be searched for -the 
Regicides. T was whispered about here that the 
messengers had not much heart for their work. 
They searched as though they searched not. At 
all events, they found not what they came for, and 
rode back empty-handed.” 

“ Verily this is news to take one’s breath away,” 
said John, thinking of all the weighty conse- 
quences involved in this discovery. 

“ I know not whether these venerable men be 
here now or not,” said Sam. “ I ’ll warrant Mr. 
Russell and Mr. Tilton and my grandsire know 
more about the business than they care to tell. 
Their heads would not long be on their necks, 
should our merry King Charles mistrust they had 
a hand in shielding the Regicides. We speak not 
of this matter, e’en among ourselves. I could but 
give thee a hint. Thou ’It not mention it.” 

“Not I,” said John . 1 

The townsmen of Hadley made no difficulty 

1 The aged Whalley died in Hadley, and was probably buried 
behind the cellar wall of Mr. Russell’s house, as portions of a 
man’s skeleton were found buried behind this wall in 1795, when 
the house was pulled down. Goffe lived concealed in Hadley 
about sixteen years. He left, apparently during King Philip’s 
War, doubtless because the presence of so many soldiers and offi- 
cers in Hadley at that time rendered his concealment insecure. 
His after abode, and the place and time of his death, are unknown. 
See Judd’s History of Hadley, p. 214. 


320 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

about releasing Cartier’s child from her bond ser- 
vice, Cartier having promised them to seek for 
himself and her a home in some godly Boston 
family, where the child should be under proper 
religious influences until such time as his sister 
could arrive from England to be his housekeeper. 

Goodman Ellis strongly urged Cartier to settle 
in Hadley. 

“ Our town will readily admit thee as an inhab- 
itant on my voucher,” said he. “ My Pruda loveth 
thy daughter with a love passing that of sisters, 
and I am loath to see the children separated.” 

“ Hearty thanks, friend Ellis, for thy kind 
thought,” said Cartier. “ But in truth, thou 
being a landsman, knowest not how it is with us 
sailors. I pine here, so far inland, for the sight 
and sound of the sea. I cannot breathe, shut in 
on all sides by hills and woods. ’T would be a 
tame life for me to turn farmer. ’T is hard teach- 
ing old dogs new tricks, thou knowest. A sailor 
I am, and a sailor I must be till the last watch 
is called.” 

Widow Burnham also urged Cartier’s settling 
in Hadley. She said she was a lone woman. 
Submit had been to her as her own daughter, and 
she could ill abide parting with her. Why should 
not Submit and her father continue to dwell under 
her roof ? 

The widow wore her best cap much at this period, 


HOME AT LAST. 


321 


and neighborhood gossip freely hinted said cap to 
be “set” at the good-looking, good-natured sailor 
man. Poor Francesca listened to the beguiling 
words of the widow, cooed in a soft strain so new 
to her, with wide-open eyes of surprise and alarm, 
relieved when her father, bland as he was to the 
widow, said to her privately one day, — 

“ Have no fears, lass. Thy daddy is too old a 
fish to be caught with a bare hook.” 

Francesca found her dear poppet under the 
garret eaves where the widow had kicked it, not 
quite daring to destroy it lest the thing be be- 
witched and work her harm. Francesca still 
loved the poppet, because for so long it had been 
all she had to love as her own, and she packed it 
carefully with her other treasures. 

Cartier was anxious to return to Boston ere 
winter set in. He intended to buy a small coast- 
ing-vessel, and engage in the coasting-trade. 
Hearing that the post, Nathaniel Warner, was 
about making his last trip for the season to Boston 
under a strong guard, he secured permission to 
join this company. And so came the day when 
Prudence and Francesca must part. 

Not without many tears could the two young 
friends, doubly dear to each other for all the 
sufferings endured together, which the tender love 
of each had helped the other bear, say that hard 
word, “ good-by.” 


21 


322 THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

“ Thou wilt write by every post, Francesca, wilt 
thou not ? *’ said Prudence, tearfully. 

u Yea, I will tell thee all about my home, my 
own home, and my aunt Charity. And remember, 
dear Pruda, thou art to visit me sometime in 
Boston. John hath promised to bring thee down 
on good old White Bess.” 

Thus they tried to soften the sorrow of parting. 

The last words were said, the last tender 
embrace taken. The little group of Francesca’s 
friends — the Ellises, Granny Allison, even old 
Watch — stood on the grass-plot before the widow’s 
door in the morning sunshine, waving farewells to 
Francesca as she rode away on a pillion behind 
her father, clasping his waist, the pretty, tearful, 
smiling face looking back for her last glimpse of 
the dear Hadley friends until the turn into the 
Middle Highway hid them from her view. 

As the friends turned to walk up the street, 
Granny Allison said, — 

“ Yerily, I deem it no sin for me to cry, with 
Simeon of old, ‘ Lord, let Thy servant depart in 
peace, for mine eyes have seen thy ^ Jion,’ now 
that I have lived to see thy children restored to 
thee, and that sweet child in her father’s arms. 
How safe it is for us poor mortals to obey the 
Scripture word, and ‘hope in the Lord’ !” 

Gladly did John and Prudence settle down into 
the old familar routine of home work and duties, 


HOME AT LAST. 


323 


so easy and pleasant now. Prudence could never 
speak of her captivity without horror. But when 
time, in a way time has, had somewhat dimmed the 
memory of his hardships, leaving only the remem- 
brance of his captivity’s pleasanter features, and 
when, like others of the Puritan youths, John 
sometimes felt the yoke of restraint enforced by 
the rigidity of Puritan customs hard to bear, he 
was known to say to the boys, who looked upon 
him as a hero and liked nothing better than to 
hear the story of his life among the Indians, — 

“ The Indian manner of life is better than ours 
in some ways. Their knowledge of the woods and 
beasts and birds and plants, and the keenness of 
their senses, passeth belief. And they have a 
wondrous freedom that we know naught of. They 
range the forest at their own free will, with no 
laws, no one to interfere. ’T is not all hardship 
being an Indian.” 

His captivity had made him quick-witted, ready 
of resource in emergency, and given him a power 
of quiet endurance. It had been a hard school, 
but its lest .-"told for good on all his after life. 


THE END. 




















































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THE YOUNG PURITANS 


IN KING PHILIP’S WAR 


A sequel to “ The Young Puritans of Old Hadley ” 
BY MARY P. WELLS SMITH 

Author of 11 The folly Good Times Series etc . 


12mo. Cloth. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. $1.25 


This is the second volume in “ The Young Puritans Series.” The 
author has made a very careful study of the Colonial life and history of 
the time. Like the first volume of the series, her attempt to depict the 
life of Puritan children for young people is closely based on historical 
facts. These volumes should be read carefully and studied by the children 
of to-day, recounting, as they do, the hardships endured by their forefathers 
and foremothers in the settlement of this country, as well as their devotion, 
high aims, and religious zeal. The third volume of the series will be 
devoted to “The Young Puritans in Captivity.” 


RICH ENOUGH 

BY LEIGH WEBSTER 

Author of “ Another Girl's Experience ” 



Illustrated by Elizabeth S. Pitman. 
i 6 mo. Cloth. 1 1. 2 5 

The need of economy rarely works out, even in books, more delightful 
results than in “ Ricli Enough.” — The Outlook. 

Young men and women may read, both with pleasure and profit, 
“ Rich Enough.” — Boston Beacon. 

A brightly written chronicle of the experiences of a family of young men 
and women upon whom a heavy cloud of adversity has fallen in the midst 
of prosperity, and in the whole-hearted way in which they face it is found 
the motive of the tale. It is a breezy, healthful story, with the best of 
imports, and dealing with real up-to-date youth with its ambitions, its faults, 
and its .’oves — for there is a very strong and very sweet love interest in 
the story. 


FAVORITE STORIES 
BY MISS A. G. PLYMPTON. 

Author of “ Dear Daughter Dorothy ” 



The winsome little maid (“ Dear Daughter Dorothy 7 ), with her loyalty 
and love, attracts our hearts as Little Lord Fauntleroy has done, and 
reveals the divine element in childhood. While reading the story we 
caught ourselves falling in love with the lovely child, who was withal a 
creature not too w.se or good for human nature’s daily food. — Christian 
Union. 


DEAR DAUGHTER DORO- 
THY. 

DOROTHY AND ANTON. 
BETTY, A BUTTERFLY. 


THE LITTLE SISTER OF 
W 1 LIFRED. 

ROBIN’S RECRUIT. 
PENELOPE PRIG. 


Small 4 to. Cloth. Illustrated by the author. Each, $1.00 
Six volumes, uniform , in box, $ 6.00 

THE BLACK DOG, AND OTHER STORIES. Small 4 to. Cloth. 

With illustrations by the author. #1.25. 

WANOLASSET (The-Little-One-Who-Laughs). Small 4to. Cloth. 

With illustrations by the author. $1.25. 

RAGS AND VELVET GOWNS. i2mo. Cloth. Illustrated by the 
author. 50 cents. 

A FLOWER OF THE WILDERNESS. Small 4 to. Cloth. Illus- 
trated by the author. $1.2 5. 


THE YOUNG PURITANS SERIES 


BY MARY P. WELLS SMITH 



THE YOUNG PURITANS OF OLD HADLEY. 

THE YOUNG PURITANS IN KING PHILIP’S WAR. 

THE YOUNG PURITANS IN CAPTIVITY. 

12 mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Each , $1.25. Three volumes , 
uniform , in box , $3.75 






























